To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Other greetings joined in, her father’s and her brothers’ voices unmistakable as someone rapped on the door, demanding entry in a jovial, celebratory tone.

  “Your friends, they’re here.” Gillian sat up in the narrow bed, clutching the covers to her breast as she peered into the dimness, searching for the Bear. She saw him at once, for the tiny chamber didn’t offer any hiding places.

  He was on the floor beneath the window, his plaid wrapped around him, and in the pale moonlight, it was clear to see that he’d slept. His dark hair was tangled and he blinked, as if he’d just been ripped from deepest dreams.

  He was also naked.

  Leastways he was partially so, his hard-muscled chest and shoulders and his powerful arms gleaming in the moonlight. Dark hair fanned across his chest and arrowed down to his waist where the dark line disappeared beneath his plaid. Gillian wished she hadn’t noticed, for the sight made something flutter inside her.

  She tore her gaze away, meeting his eyes.

  “Your viewing party,” she reminded him, keeping her voice low, blessing Skog, who was finally stirring, his ancient ears at last catching the knocks on the door.

  The dog pushed slowly to his feet, barking. But his tail wags hinted that he wouldn’t bar entry to the intruders.

  He surely heard, or smelled, her kin.

  Gillian did, too, the ale and mead fumes wafting past the door seams proving that much merriment had gone on in the hall as she’d confronted Roag, her world crumbling around her. She tightened her grip on the bed covers, glaring at him.

  “Have done,” she urged him, tipping her head toward the door. “Let them peek in and go.”

  “No’ till you wipe that scowl off your face,” he warned, at the bed so fast she hadn’t seen him move.

  Blessedly, he still held his plaid about his waist. But the thick, long-looking ridge picked out by the brazier glow showed that even partially covered, his manhood was rampant.

  Gillian bristled. “How can I not frown when you dare come close to me—like that?” She flicked a glance at the bulge, her heart racing madly. “It’s unseemly. I am a lady—”

  “Aye, so you are.” He leaned in, bringing his face so close to hers that his warm breath brushed her cheek. “This night, a well-pleasured one, you hear?” He reached out, mussing her hair, arranging it to spill about her bared shoulders. “Bite your lips a few times, and hard. Then pinch your cheeks. They need to glow as if thon shouting men have just disturbed us.”

  He didn’t need to explain his meaning.

  She knew.

  And feeling indignant and righteous didn’t stop the rush of sensation racing through her as he fussed with her hair. His strong, warm fingers brushed along the side of her neck, then skimmed across her shoulders, each touch sending a new rush of tingles flashing over her skin. The flutters in her belly worsened, even as annoyance stole her breath and tightened her chest.

  “Have done, I said.” She snapped her brows together, determined to show her fury.

  “I would love to.” He cupped her chin, his own anger darkening his face. “Now do as I warned, or I might.”

  Gillian pressed her lips together. No longer frowning, but schooling her features into a smooth, expressionless mask.

  At the door, the raps became poundings. And hoots and laughter joined the shouts for “Donell” to let them in. Skog’s age-roughened barks accompanied them, the ruckus annoying the Bear so much that he stepped back from the bed and raised his hands, fisting them as if to vent his anger.

  His plaid fell to the floor.

  “Oh!” Gillian’s jaw dropped, her eyes rounding. He was more than rampant. He was ragingly so, as the moonlight and the brazier’s glow revealed.

  “Indeed.” He glared down at her, making no move to snatch up the fallen plaid. “And if you’re as clever as I suspect, you’ll ken that a man in such a state isnae one to rile.

  “Now look sated.” He stepped nearer to the bed’s edge, the whole of his naked perfection only inches away. “Remember if you dinnae, there will be a price of blood to pay—your kin’s.”

  Gillian scooted closer to the wall, felt her face heating with rage. “You bastard.”

  “So I am,” he agreed, already striding for the door.

  “Ho, Donell!” the first man who’d knocked called out again, lifting his voice above the others. “ ’Tis cold and drafty on this landing! Let us see the two o’ ye, so we can head back down to the warmth o’ the hall and our mead!”

  “Or are ye still so busy plowing fertile fields that ye dinnae hear us?” another shouted, his words spurring a burst of laughter and more vigorous door-hammerings.

  “The seeds are sowed,” Roag confirmed, throwing the door wide.

  Two of his largest men stood on the threshold. The red-bearded giant Gillian recognized as Conn of the Strong Arm, the Valkyrie’s helmsman, and a man reported to have Erse blood, spoke first. “You ken why we’re here, my friend.” He clapped a hand on Roag’s shoulder, peering past him to narrow his eyes at Gillian. “ ’Tis tradition in my Irish homeland as well—looking in to see that all’s right betwixt the happy twain after a bonding.”

  Roag glanced back at her, then turned again to his helmsman. “We are well satisfied, be it known.”

  Gillian heard him, wanting nothing more than to sink into the shadows.

  “Aye, sweet?” Roag shot another look at her, a warning in his eyes.

  She forced a nod, if not a smile. “I will be tired come morning,” she returned, grasping the first response that came to her. Had this beast truly lain with me, I doubt I’d be able to walk for a week! She kept the truth to herself, took care not to let the bed coverings slip from her trembling fingers.

  “All that was required of us has been done,” she added, hoping the hot color staining her cheeks would appear to the gawkers as the flush of passion.

  She refused to think of this as a viewing.

  It was an outrage.

  “So all is well?” The question was directed at Roag and came from the second man, an equally towering figure she’d heard Roag call Big Hughie Alesone.

  Perhaps even a bit larger than Conn, but with hair almost as red, Big Hughie’s ruddy face shone in the landing’s torchlight. The suspicion in his eyes hinted that he wasn’t as good at pretending as the Irish helmsman, Conn.

  “Is there aught ye be needing?” Big Hughie didn’t even look her way, his furrowed brow on Roag. “Fresh sheeting…” He gave Roag a telling look, his gaze flicking briefly to the bed. “I’ve brought a flask o’ uisge beatha for you and the lass—to celebrate the night.” He pulled the flask from beneath his plaid, thrust it into Roag’s hands, muttering something close to Roag’s ear—words so low and indistinguishable Gillian couldn’t catch them.

  She was sure they wouldn’t please her.

  “Father!” She leaned forward, raising her voice above Skog’s excitement, for the old dog was winding in and out of the men’s legs, his thin bark marking his age as he sought to join the ruckus. “Father,” she called again, for she couldn’t see him in the throng. “I have a wish, if I may?”

  “To be sure!” He pushed through Roag’s men, his girth suddenly filling the doorway. “I can see you’re well cared for, praise be all the gods!”

  Beaming, he swelled his great chest, slid a beneficent glance at Roag before turning back to her. “Name your wish, lass.”

  Gillian took a breath, her heart knocking hard against her ribs. She didn’t want to draw Roag’s anger, but he’d arranged this spectacle. So he couldn’t fault her if she used it to her advantage, giving her family their best chance of escape.

  She had no choice, really.

  Moistening her lips, she thought quickly, knowing at once what must be said.

  “You know how much I love you,” she began, relieved when the words rang clear and strong. She kept her gaze on her father, trying hard to ignore the big, naked man beside him. “How much I love all of you,” she added, her heart sque
ezing as her brothers crowded behind her father, each well-loved face wearing an odd mixture of guilt, hope, and excitement.

  They knew she wasn’t pleased to be in Roag’s bed.

  Yet they’d been fooled and thought she should be.

  She only cared that they survived the morrow.

  So she looked directly at them, pretending she didn’t even see Roag’s crewmen, who were playing their roles so well. “My loves,” she called to her family, “I’d be grateful if you sail away as quickly as possible on the morrow. Perhaps even before first light, if you’d grant me such a boon?

  “Truth is, I shall miss you fiercely, and do not want to suffer a long, drawn-out farewell.” I fear if you do not make haste, we will not see each other again in this life. Her stomach churned at the thought. She ached to give them a stronger warning. “Please—say you’ll do this for me.”

  Her father blinked, glanced at her oldest brother, Gowan, and Andrew, the youngest, who both stood nearest to him. When they nodded, her father looked relieved.

  “Aye, so we will,” he agreed, turning back to her. “If the tides are running strong, we’ll be away before the sun can break the horizon.”

  “I am glad.” Sail fast, please.

  “No more than my Lorna shall be!” Her father’s face split in a grin and he nudged Gowan with an elbow. “She doesnae like being alone too long, that one!”

  “Then hurry home to her.” Gillian forced a smile, a light tone that hid her dislike of her stepmother. “Now, please leave us,” she added, settling back against the bed cushions, pretending to stretch from weariness.

  In their ale-headed state, some of the men might even think she wished more of her new husband’s attentions. If so, that suited her fine.

  The sooner they left, the faster Roag would snatch up his plaid, hiding his blatant maleness from her view.

  Or so she hoped.

  In truth, she had a hard time keeping her attention on the men on the landing instead of staring openly at the naked man whose bare-skinned magnificence was burning the backs of her eyes.

  She suspected the sight was branded there, his shocking carnality ready to taunt her forever.

  No man should hold such power over a woman.

  That he did, over her, made her chest ache with an emotion she didn’t want to examine.

  So she waited until his men and her father and brothers turned away from the door and, one by one, trudged back down to the meager comforts of the tower’s cold and drafty hall. Roag the Bear—she now understood why he’d claimed that his by-name had to do with his great size—closed the door only when their departing footsteps stopped echoing in the stair tower.

  “You did well, lass,” he said, sliding the door’s drawbar into place, locking them in the little chamber. He strolled across the room, stopping by her bed to pick up his fallen plaid.

  He did not sling it around his hips.

  He only dropped it onto the end of her bed as he stood looking down at her. “They believed we coupled,” he announced, speaking as casually as if they were both fully clothed and dining at the high table. “If you perform so well in the morning, they may leave in peace, unscathed, and still amongst the living.”

  Gillian felt her fury rising, rolling through her like waves. She refused to acknowledge his brazen display. “I will hold you to your word, sirrah.”

  “You have it.”

  I would rather see you clothed. She hoped her eyes said the silent words.

  “A shame I am not sure how good your word is,” she did say. Holding his gaze, she flicked a speck of lint off the bed, no longer bothering to appear content and drained from love play.

  The very notion sent heat inching back up her neck, onto her cheeks. “You are a scoundrel such as I’ve never met. An honorless, cold-hearted blackguard who—”

  “Dinnae make me keep warning you no’ to vex me, lass.” His voice hardened, his expression turning fierce. “You’ve already caused more trouble than you know.”

  “What should I say?” She couldn’t believe his audacity.

  “Only you ken, my lady.” He glanced at Skog, his face softening a bit as the beast circled three times and then lowered himself ever so slowly to the floor beside the brazier.

  Gillian wished she hadn’t seen—the evidence of Skog’s stiff joints reminded her of his age. Watching Roag look at her pet in sympathy made her feel hollow inside.

  She didn’t want to like anything about him.

  And much as she was trying not to notice, he was also doing the exact opposite of what she’d hoped—now that they were alone again, he made no move to cover his nakedness.

  So she glanced at his plaid, her irritation almost alive. “Are you no’ going to put that on?”

  “Nae.” He didn’t blink, his bluntness drawing her attention right where it shouldn’t be.

  He’d grown larger!

  She knew why when his gaze lowered to her breasts and one edge of his mouth lifted in an almost-smile.

  The bed covers had slipped, falling near to her waist.

  “How dare you!” She jerked up the sheeting, her heart hammering wildly. “You should have told me.”

  “The covers only just slid down.” He spoke as if it were nothing—as if it were every day a man ogled her naked breasts, her nipples that, to her horror, were chill-tightened and thrusting. “I will tell you that you’ve bonnie teats.”

  “Bonnie—”

  “So I said.” His smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “I’ll also tell you that I haven’t slung on my plaid because I aye sleep naked. It has naught to do with you.

  “What does is making surenae one doubts we’ve sealed our handfast.” He placed the flask Big Hughie had given him on the bed and then bent to pull a dirk from his discarded belt.

  Straightening, he ran his thumb along the dirk’s blade, nodding once when a bead of red appeared. “I’m no’ wanting any questions when we go belowstairs in the morn.”

  Gillian shook her head, her eyes rounding. “You’re not going to cut me.” She drew a breath, tried to shore up the strength she was so proud of having. “Even you—”

  “The blade is for me, sweet,” he said, taking a quick slash across his forearm.

  He dropped the dirk onto the bed, and then dragged his fingers down his arm, using the blood to smear the sheets. When he was done, he grabbed the dirk again, this time cutting away the soiled portion of the linen. He crumpled the cloth in his hands and then shook it out, holding it up like a banner.

  “A parting gift for your da.” He began rolling it up, satisfaction on his handsome face. “No man will dare claim you are no’ duly given and bound to the Laird of Laddie’s Isle. And your kin”—he pressed the linen roll against the cut on his arm—“will sail away relieved that you’re happy.

  “So long as you do as required on the morrow.” He stepped closer and leaned down to drop a quick kiss on her lips. “Till then, have a sip or two of the fine uisge beatha Big Hughie left for you,” he suggested, flicking a glance at the flagon. “Good Highland spirits to help you sleep the night.”

  “How thoughtful you both are.” You’re fiends from the coldest pit of hell.

  She made no move to retrieve the flask. She did want a sip. More like, she’d enjoy several.

  But reaching for it would risk having the covers slip again, perhaps revealing even more of her than the breasts the great lout had already seen.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, he took the flask and handed it to her. “Here, drink now.”

  And so she did, holding his gaze as she gulped down two healthy measures.

  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, but didn’t return the flagon. “All I need is for you to be gone.”

  “As you wish,” he agreed, running the fingers of his unbloodied hand down her cheek. “I have aye sought to make the lassies happy. If you’ll close your lovely eyes and count to three, I’ll be back beneath my window, stretched out in the shadows, before you look again.
”

  He didn’t wait for her to do as he bid, simply turned and headed to the window, his plaid clutched in his unsullied hand.

  Gillian glared after him, sure a greater dastard couldn’t walk the earth.

  She should despise him.

  Indeed, she did!

  But his long, well-muscled legs, his proud back, and—the gods preserve her—his tight, beautifully made ass, were limned silver by the moonlight. Every bold, naked inch of him, revealed to her in all his shocking beauty. And much as she resented and reviled him, he stirred her in ways that made her question everything she’d ever believed about herself.

  Could it be she was wanton?

  As man-crazed and lacking morals as she suspected her stepmother to be?

  Or were all women naturally susceptible to a man in all his naked glory? Even when they’d seen the wickedness that lived in his soul, the falseness of his heart?

  She was sure she didn’t want to know.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roag knew the instant his dreams of slavering hellhounds and sulfurous brimstone turned real. The howls pierced the mists of sleep, hurting his ears, and the soft, feminine murmurs that accompanied them became disturbingly familiar. The voice belonged to Lady Gillian, and her dog, Skog, was whining.

  Pushing up on an elbow, Roag squinted into the gloom of the maid’s lodging.

  He frowned, not remembering when he’d fallen asleep. His back hurt, and his neck was stiff, his aches and pains leaving no question he’d kept his word—that he’d spent the entire night on the hard stone floor.

  His scowl deepened. He was sure he’d crossed the room only moments before, leaving Lady Gillian in her bed, the covers pulled to her chin, her furious gaze burning holes in his back as he’d tossed his plaid onto the floor beneath the window. He felt as if he’d only just made his sleeping place, pulling a length of plaid over him, the warmth from the nearby brazier and Lady Gillian’s slumbering dog taking the bite out of the chill night air. He’d barely closed his eyes.

  Now…

  Another howl echoed in the darkness, more soothing words from the lass.