To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Before you reach the Sea Star, Grim and Sorley will have been there, delivering a great carved bed you’ll present to Donell and his bride as a handfasting gift.”

  “They’re no’ sailing with us?’ Andrew flashed a look at Grim and Sorley.

  “Sorley would worry himself too much o’er the state of his wife’s thickening waist to be much use to you,” the Wolf declared, his smile back again. “Grim is but a friend, as well you ken. His lady wife, too, awaits his return to Duncreag Castle where he still mans the MacNab garrison. Archie MacNab is an older chieftain and frail. He depends on Grim.

  “His task was a favor, nae more,” he added, glancing at the big Highlander with appreciation. “He let us know what he’d heard about our lad, Donell, on his journey home from Ireland no’ too long ago.

  “Your duty, among the others already agreed upon, is to deliver a bed to Laddie’s Isle.” The Wolf sat back, looking at them all as if no further words were needed.

  But the corner of his lips quirked and a gleam lit his eyes, hinting at more.

  “There’s something else about the bed.” Caelan didn’t return his smile.

  The Wolf only leaned back, tipped his ale cup to his lips. “I do naught without reason,” he finally said, setting down the empty cup.

  “I ken what’s wrong with the bed,” Andrew declared. “It’ll be dismantled. We’ll need forever to reassemble it.”

  “So I suspect.” The Wolf agreed.

  “What else?” Caelan persisted.

  Alex Stewart drew a long, deep breath and glanced out over the smoke-hazed public room. “There is only one way to tame a prickly, high-spirited lassie. I’ll no’ have a temper fit risking a mission. Nor will I have the Bear worsen it by riling her. Truth is he can be kept in good fettle by the same method.”

  “The bed.” Andrew and Caelan spoke as one.

  “Indeed,” the Wolf sounded pleased. “Your task requires more than delivering and assembling the bed. You must encourage our lad to use it. Better yet, to enjoy it.”

  “With Lady Gillian?” Andrew and Caelan again responded in chorus.

  “With his handfasted bride,” Alex Stewart amended. “Their joinings will be right and proper, blessed by my own good will! See you to it, aye?”

  Chapter Twenty

  No harm will come to you.

  Roag the Bear’s vow circled in Gillian’s mind, ruining her morning even asit had stolen her sleep. When my work is done, I will see you safely away, his other words followed as quickly, spoiling her mood and making her temper rise.

  It was a curious thing, his promises to see to her well-being having the opposite effect, annoying her beyond reason.

  Yet they did, and they had done ever since he’d voiced them, well over a sennight ago.

  Seven full days and nights in which her only true peace had been enjoyed in this cold, wee chamber, sequestered away from him, and with Skog the sole witness to her misery.

  “Do you think it is my pride?” She glanced at her dog as she dressed, not really expecting an answer because the aged beast yet slept, his snores filling the room. “Can a man kiss a woman so hungrily and then…

  “Feel nothing?” The very notion made her want to go toe to toe with him, possibly even kick him in the shin. “He might serve our good Scottish King, but he is heartless.”

  Frowning, she blinked back the heat that suddenly pricked the backs of her eyes.

  Her great hulking captor didn’t deserve her tears.

  So she dashed at her cheek, determined not to let them fall. “He is a beast,” she announced, glancing again at her pet. “We will be better off without him.”

  If Skog agreed, he gave no sign.

  Not wanting to bother him further, Gillian returned to her lumpy little bed and pulled off one of the older, more worn covers. Carefully, she lowered its softness over Skog, knowing he loved sleeping away the morning hours, and wanting him to be as warm and comfortable as possible.

  She didn’t care if she froze.

  Far from it, she welcomed the shivers that raised gooseflesh on her skin; the chill, damp air that was almost icy enough to make her teeth chatter. Better to stamp about, rubbing her hands and swirling extra shawls about her shoulders, than to spend another moment huddled beneath the bed covers, everything she disliked about Roag coiling tight in the pit of her stomach, occupying her attention, slowly but surely driving her to madness.

  But how could he not irritate her?

  Aside from keeping her here against her will, he was simply too big, too rugged, his dark good looks much too distracting. His swagger was an affront. She didn’t want to consider the boldness of his grin, especially not how a dimple flashed in his cheek each time he employed it. As for his kindness to Skog, the good-natured way he dealt with his men, most notably in moments when he wasn’t aware that she was watching him, how they appeared to not just respect and obey him, but to genuinely like him…

  None of that mattered.

  It certainly didn’t concern her.

  Nor would she be grateful that he’d somehow gleaned that she had a fondness for honeyed bannocks, and that he’d ordered his cook to make certain they were served in plenty at mealtimes, and always placed near to her.

  If his hard-muscled thigh happened to bump against hers under the high table at such meals, there was no reason under the heavens for her to relive the rush of tingles that raced across her skin each time such an accidental touch happened.

  So why did such rememberings make her heart beat faster, setting her pulse to racing and warming her cheeks?

  Gillian released an agitated breath.

  Had she lost her wits entirely?

  Hoping not, she went to the window, needing air. But before she could draw a deep, much-needed breath, she spied a ship. At this early hour, the sea and sky were still a seemingly merged blend of gray and black, yet there could be no mistaking that a galley rode the dark waves. Or that its path would bring it temptingly close to Laddie’s Isle, possibly offering her an escape.

  Gillian pressed her fists against her breast, drew a tight breath, her mind racing.

  She fixed her gaze on the ship, squinting to see better in the watery light. At a distance, she couldn’t tell for certain, but she’d almost bet the galley was a MacDonald vessel. The Lords of the Isles plied these waters more frequently than any other, and she knew most of their ships well enough to trust that this was one of them. Good men, and friends of her clan, they’d surely help her if she could but catch their attention as they neared.

  She cast a glance at the door.

  But she dismissed that route as quickly as the notion had come to her.

  She couldn’t go belowstairs, couldn’t cross the hall to leave the keep. Roag’s men slept there, and many would be waking now, taking their places at the tables to break the night’s fast. They’d question her purpose, preventing her from leaving the tower, thwarting her chances of signaling the ship.

  Yet even if she caught their eye from her window, and they came closer, she’d have to shout to speak with them, her raised voice heard by the men in the hall.

  She had only one chance.

  The drop from her window to the grassy ledge of the promontory wasn’t daunting. If she jumped and landed well, she could sneak down the cliff path to the tiny cove beneath her bedchamber. She knew such a path existed because she’d seen it when she and her family had sailed beneath the tower, on their way to the far side of the isle and the more accessible landing beach they’d used. Her father had pointed to the track, claiming only a goat could scale it.

  She didn’t care.

  If she could hail the MacDonalds and they came for her, two of them could surely make a swift ascent, fetching Skog and retrieving her pouch of Viking treasure.

  She’d give them a small share for their trouble.

  Thereafter…

  She’d worry about that once she was safe.

  Determined not to miss what might be her only chance, she
threw one last glance at Skog, then hitched up her skirts and scrambled over the window ledge, dropping lightly to her feet only a short distance below. Desperation lent her speed and she followed the cliff path with equal ease, reaching the tiny, steep-sided cover even faster than she’d dared to hope.

  The MacDonald galley was still bearing down on the island.

  But with the time they were making, the ship would soon slip around the shoulder of the headland, vanishing from view if they didn’t soon see her.

  Not knowing what else to do, she crept out onto the tidal rocks, whipping her shawl from her shoulders as she went. At the end of the rocks, she thrust her arm high above her head, waving the shawl in the air, letting it unfurl like a banner.

  She could only hope the ship’s crew would see her.

  And they did, apparently, slewing the galley her way in a great fanning burst of spray. In a beat, the ship shot forward, oars flashing as it came straight toward her.

  “Praise the gods,” she breathed, her heart thundering.

  But then the ship veered round in the other direction, quickly disappearing into the thick sea mist that seemed to sweep in out of nowhere.

  “No!” Gillian stared after the galley, stunned disbelief slamming into her. Grabbing her shawl with both hands now, she swung it back and forth in the wind, trying in vain to hold the crew’s attention, to draw them back.

  “Please,” she cried, knowing no one heard her. “Don’t go! Please…”

  But only the wind answered, rushing now with increased ferocity. Great gales howled past her, sending cold waves to smack into her and sweep her feet out from under her, knocking her to her knees. Pain shot through her and the world tilted, turning into a strange and dazzling blaze of black and silver.

  Then even that was gone, leaving only the cold.

  “By the love of Thor, we’ve lost them!”

  Roag stood on the Valkyrie’s high prow platform, swearing as he stared into the near impenetrable mist that had swept up out of nowhere. “We were almost upon the bastards!” Drenched and cold, he felt a red haze of anger such as he’d rarely known. They’d been so close to catching the other galley—a many-oared warship disguised as a vessel of the Hebrides’ own Lords of the Isles, the MacDonalds. Leastways, he and his men suspected that was so.

  Why else would the crew have thrown shields over the dragon ship’s sides as soon as they’d spotted the Valkyrie? Why yank off their plaids to reveal mailed chests and the glint of so much steel hung about them? And there could only be one reason men had raced to fasten a ramming spear to the prow.

  They were up to no good.

  And now they were gone.

  Furious, Roag shouted to his oarsmen, “Veer about! We’re away back to the isle!”

  Any other time, he’d have smiled, exhilarated as Conn used the long steering-oar to whip the galley round, Roag himself clashing an expert rhythm on the ship’s great gong, and his men obliging at speed, sending up a plume of spray as they lashed down with the strakes, slewing the Valkyrie back toward Laddie’s Isle and the landing beach they’d left hours before.

  Were he alone, he’d race on, chasing the fiends on the other ship until he’d run them into hell.

  But he wouldn’t risk his friends.

  Speeding through such thick mist, across waters filled with reefs, skerries, and submerged tidal rocks, was nothing if not mad. Indeed, it was murderous.

  And he wasn’t that crazed, or desperate.

  “We’ll have another chance at them,” Big Hughie called from one of the front oar banks, speaking Roag’s mind. “Now we ken how they’re moving about so easily—guising themselves as MacDonalds!”

  Roag frowned, set a hand on his sword hilt. “Did you see the black sail?” He flashed at look over his shoulder, his gaze flashing along the rows of straining oarsmen. “Tell me my eyes didnae deceive me. Did the bastards lower the MacDonalds’ raven-painted sail at our approach, raising a black one in its stead?”

  “Aye, they did,” his men chorused, lifting their voices above the wind, the lashing of their oars.

  “Could be they’ve stolen a MacDonald dragon ship.” Roag thought it likely.

  “Or they’re changing their ship—or ships—to suit them,” Conn called from his place at the steering oar. “Mayhap they have more than one ship?”

  “We’ll soon ken, I vow,” Roag swore, anger still beating inside him. “A shame we dinnae have a second galley. We’ll have to sharpen our lookouts, watch for a friendly craft we can approach and engage, send a few men to Islay to speak with the MacDonalds, to find out if they’re missing a dragon ship.”

  “I doubt they are,” one of the oarsmen countered. “The Lords of the Isles are too mighty. Stealing one of their warships would bring down the wrath of all the Hebrides on the thieving bastards.”

  “Aye,” Conn lifted his voice again. “I’m thinking they dress the damned ship differently each time they sail out.”

  “Like as no’ that is so.” Roag felt the same.

  So he nodded sharply, turning back to frown ahead, into the whirling mist.

  There was something odd about it, he was sure.

  The shiver that swept down his spine agreed.

  It’d been a cold, clear night when they’d set out on patrol. And not too long ago, the first gray light of the dawn had picked out the horizon, the sun’s red edge not hidden by a wisp of fog. Yet even as they’d closed in on the dragon ship, the world had darkened, the half-risen sun blacked out as if it’d never been, their enemy victorious, speeding away unscathed.

  It was almost as if the damned mist had aided them.

  As if the gods themselves had interceded so that the Valkyrie couldn’t give chase.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Roag heard Skog’s howls as he strode across Laddie’s Isle’s landing beach and made for the cliff path to his keep. Heavy mist still swirled everywhere, but the fog did nothing to dampen the dog’s cries. Indeed, the wails only grew louder the higher he climbed. When he reached the tower and threw open the door to the hall, he wondered that his ears didn’t split.

  He suspected the dog was suffering another of his fearful dreams.

  A bad one, by the sound of it.

  Frowning, Roag strode deeper into the hall, glancing about at the few men who’d remained on guard at the tower—the ones who hadn’t sailed out with him on the Valkyrie in the cold, dark hours before daybreak. Not a one of them appeared concerned—or disturbed—by the old dog’s wailing.

  “Have you lost your hearing, men?” Roag drew up near the hearth and thrust his hands toward the flames, grateful that some good soul had tended the fire. “By the gods! Do the lot of you have bog cotton in your ears, or what?”

  “He hasnae been at it long,” one of the men hollered, lifting his voice above Skog’s howls.

  “He’ll stop soon, he will,” another agreed, then tossed down the contents of an ale cup before dragging his sleeve across his bearded chin. “Hasn’t his mistress told us that he aye sleeps late and then grumbles on waking, if his dish isnae filled fast enough? The lady isnae yet—”

  “She’s still abed?” Roag glanced at the nearest window. Even fog-shrouded, the morn was clearly under way, the darkness edged by a much lighter gray. He could also hear the sea crashing against the rocks and for reasons he couldn’t explain, ill-ease coiled in his chest and his gaze went to the shadowed stair tower across the hall. “She’s no’ yet come belowstairs?”

  The man shook his head, happily eating a bannock.

  “No’ that I’ve seen,” another spoke up, setting down his ale cup. “Brodie”—he jerked his head to a man at the end of the table—“went up to look in on her a while ago, but she was still asleep. She didnae answer his knocking, so he let her be.”

  “Brodie!” Roag was at the man’s shoulder in three long strides. “Was her dog howling then?”

  Brodie glanced up at him, wiped his mouth. “Nae, the room was silent. Saving the beast’s snores�
�heard them through the door, I did. So I left.”

  Roag nodded, the chill inside him worsening, his man’s words ringing in his head like hammer blows. He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, looked again across the smoke-hazed hall to the arch of the stair tower.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Then he knew, remembering Lady Gillian’s own words…

  He whines and howls if I am away too long.

  “By all Thor’s fury!” he roared, racing across the hall, dread filling him. Behind him, he could hear his men scraping back trestle benches, leaping to their feet to chase after him. He paid them no heed, almost flying up the few steps to Lady Gillian’s bedchamber. Throwing the door wide, he burst inside.

  Skog stood on his hind legs at the window, his entire body shaking as he strained to scrabble up and over the broad stone ledge. The dog’s barks were hoarse, his howls pitched with terror.

  It was clear to see why.

  Lady Gillian was gone.

  And as Roag ran to the window, he hoped to all the gods he wouldn’t see her broken body on the rocks below. Blessedly, he didn’t, for mist still clouded the air, blurring the view. But the roar of the sea was loud and its thunder put fear in his soul. Heart pounding, he threw off his plaid, barely noticed two of his men rushing at him to help yank his mail shirt over his head. He unbuckled his sword belt faster than he’d ever done in his life, tossing belt and blade onto the floor. Then he did the only thing he could…

  He vaulted over the window ledge, praying he wasn’t too late.

  The world shook beneath Gillian, the very air quaking around her. And the great shuddering had nothing to do with the icy waves that kept slamming into her. Someone was running along the narrow strip of shore, coming fast, and pounding toward her, yelling her name as he raced ever nearer. Relief swept her as she heard his calls, recognized his voice.

  He was Roag the Bear.

  And she wasn’t going to die here on the rocks, trapped by her skirts and her injured ankle, drowning when the tide rose.