Highlander Unmasked

by Monica McCarty

  He didn’t say anything for a moment but simply stared at her, piercing her with the heated intensity of his gaze. Somehow, she managed not to squirm.

  “I’m not angry with you,” he said finally. “I’m simply attending to your welfare.”

  Meg couldn’t help it, she let out a little snort of disbelief. “And was I in some kind of danger?”

  Obviously, he didn’t like the flippancy of her response, because he took a step closer. An intimidating step closer. Close enough for Meg to feel the warmth of his body and see the tiny silk fibers on his black peascod doublet. His chest was a wall of granite. This man was built to dominate. Though the knowledge sent a perverse thrill through her, Meg knew she had to stand her ground. Drawing up every inch of her diminutive frame, she squared her shoulders, refusing to cower before him.

  “Flirting like that, you could have been,” he said flatly.

  Incredulous, she gaped at him. “You can’t be serious. Me, flirting? How dare you criticize my conduct! I was not the one kissing a serving maid in the open for everyone to see.”

  He was obviously struggling to control his temper. His arms stretched taught along his side, and he looked up to the heavens as if asking for patience. “I was not kissing her,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She turned away and made a sound, surprised by the painful twinge in her chest. Gazing up at the starry sky, she was keenly aware of the man standing next to her. The sinfully handsome face, the soft, shiny waves of dark golden hair that just grazed the top of his collar, the tall, powerful physique, the strength she felt beneath his callused warrior’s hand.

  But Meg knew it was far more than simply physical attraction that she was responding to. It was his utter command over everything around him. Alex was a man who made her feel wonderfully feminine. His dominance was strangely reassuring; he had a subtle way of taking charge just by his presence of authority and strength. When she was with this man, she felt as if nothing could harm her. Her problems did not seem so insurmountable. She did not feel so alone. With Alex, she could relax.

  He let out a long sigh. “It’s not what you think.”

  For some reason, she sensed that he was telling the truth. Even hurt and angry, she remembered his gentle rebuff of the pretty maid and his attempt to unwind her arms from around his neck. “Then what was it?”

  His face went blank. “It’s none of your affair,” he snapped. Then, more kindly: “It has nothing to do with you.”

  His honesty hurt. He was right, Alex MacLeod had nothing to do with her.

  She felt a suspicious burning behind her eyes, but she quickly put a grip on those unwelcome emotions. Meg never cried. But it seemed that ever since she’d met Alex, so much of what she’d thought she knew about herself had changed. She could read Latin, Greek, and French, could run an estate as well as any man, but at her core she was just as vulnerable as anyone else. She’d tried to hide from her emotions, but they’d found her. “You’re right,” she said with a catch in her voice. “It is none of my affair, but neither do you have any right to interfere in my business. From now on, I’ll thank you to mind your own.”

  He took her arm again and whipped her around to face him, forcing her to meet his implacable gaze. “You go too far,” he said in a low voice that carried the faintest hint of a threat. “It is my responsibility to see you are safe tonight. So do as I say and stay well away from those men.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. He had no right to order her about. And her conduct tonight was beyond reproach. He’d taken his duties well beyond the scope of an escort. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you? You play a dangerous game. Those men will eat an innocent like you for breakfast.”

  She laughed. The pulse appeared in his jaw again, but Meg didn’t heed the warning. “Surely you jest? I’ve known most of those men for years. They are quite harmless, I assure you. I was merely enjoying myself. You might try it sometime.” She paused, daring to add, “And how do you know I’m innocent? You presume much, my laird.”

  His eyes flared, and he tightened his grip on her arm. “Don’t press me, Meg.”

  She didn’t miss the intimate use of her Christian name, but there was no mistaking the threat this time. His voice was deep and liquid and seemed to wrap around her. She knew she shouldn’t provoke him, but he brought out a mischievous side of her long forgotten. Lifting one brow, she asked, “Or what?”

  Before the taunt had left her mouth, she was in his arms again and jerked firmly against the broad chest she’d just admired. She gasped. Not from shock, but from the realization of how much she liked being pressed against him. Of how she savored the sensation of her breasts and hips molded against the hard length of his body, of melting against him, of being secured in his arms. A wave of heated awareness shuddered through her.

  His eyes were hooded, his expression dark and full of promise. “Or I will prove to you just how innocent you are, my sweet, and how very little control you have over a man and a man’s desires.”

  In his eyes, she saw the very depths of his desire. The lust, the need, the hunger.

  For me. This fierce warrior, who held himself so aloof and remote, wanted her. And her body responded, softening.

  Time stood still. The masque, the sounds from the hall, her responsibilities, all fell away. There was nothing left but the two of them alone in the moonlight. He lowered his head. Slowly. Inch by heart-stopping inch. Giving her every opportunity to object.

  She could hear the fierce pounding of her heart. His mouth was so close. If she were breathing, their breath would have mingled in the cool night air. Her eyes felt heavy, begging to close. Desperately, she fought the magnetic pull of warmth and desire that beckoned from his seductive form. She’d been kissed before, and it had nearly led to disaster. But Alex’s mouth moved over hers, and God help her, she could not stop him.

  A whisper. A breath. A warm scent of spice and then the barest, sweetest touch. A touch that sent a shock wave rippling through her body. Every inch of him was hard, unyielding male, but he startled her with a gentle brush of his mouth. She felt the softness of his lips for only an instant before he raised his head, leaving her with a tightness in her chest and a sharp yearning for more.

  It was a kiss of aching tenderness that packed unexpected strength. With one swift touch, something inside her shifted, exposing a part of her best left buried. She didn’t want to feel. She wanted to do what was right and marry Jamie. Not dream of a fierce warrior with unknown loyalties. A man whose very nearness tossed her into a state of confusion.

  It was all wrong, she wanted to cry out in frustration. She wanted him to be rough and brutish, to make her not want him. To prove the validity of her decision in choosing Jamie. She didn’t want this gentle warrior who kissed her as if she were the most precious jewel in the world.

  She stared at him, breathing fast through softly parted lips. Not knowing what to think. In truth, he looked just as stunned as she did.

  I let him kiss me. I must be losing my mind. She’d played with fire, but she’d never expected to be burned by tenderness.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked dumbly.

  He released her and took a determined step back. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, don’t do it again.”

  “On that account, you have nothing to fear.”

  For some reason, the absolute certainty of his tone made her feel worse.

  The sound of the balcony doors opening was a welcome reprieve. The woman who appeared, however, was not.

  Bianca Gordon was the most empty-headed, selfish woman at court. And probably the most beautiful—which was convenient, since that happened to be her favorite subject. She epitomized the classical ideal of beauty: flaxen hair, eyes the sparkling blue of the sea, and refined features. But her disposition did not match her lovely features. Her father was the powerful Marquess of Huntly, and Bianca made sure everyone knew it and bowed accordingly.


  Wanting to escape and still annoyed by Alex’s presumption in lecturing her on her conduct tonight, Meg took a step backward, her mind churning. Alex must have read her intentions.

  “Don’t you dare, Meg,” he warned in a low voice.

  Meg ignored him and flashed Bianca a brilliant smile. “Bianca Gordon, how nice to see you!”

  Bianca looked perplexed. Meg had never welcomed her company before. “Meg, what have you done to yourself?” she asked rudely. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Meg’s hair and dress. “Why, you look pretty.”

  Meg’s voice was honey sweet. “How kind of you to notice. But of course, I could never be as beautiful as you, Bianca.”

  Bianca nodded with all the confidence of a queen accepting homage, obviously pleased to have the attention focused back on her.

  Meg turned to Alex. “Bianca, do you know my neighbor from Skye, Laird Alex MacLeod? He’s been simply begging me for an introduction.”

  Meg swore she heard Alex hiss.

  Bianca beamed eagerly, fluttering her long lashes. “How do you do, my laird.”

  “My lady,” Alex murmured, bending over her proffered hand.

  Despite the threatening glower Alex threw her, Meg said, “Alex, didn’t you just say that you were looking for a partner for the next set of dances?”

  Before Alex could strangle her—if his expression was any indication of his intent—Meg started away. She looked back over her shoulder and met Alex’s glare. “Enjoy your evening, you two.”

  That should occupy him for a while. Meg felt better already. She would not let one brief kiss from an over-bearing laird, no matter how unsettling, ruin her night.

  Alex didn’t know whether to throttle her or stay as far away from Meg Mackinnon as possible.

  After being foisted off on Bianca Gordon—as vain and insipid a woman as he’d ever met—he decided on the former. But that kiss made him reluctant to get anywhere near her.

  Kissing Meg had been a mistake.

  She’d felt so soft and sweet in his arms, the temptation had been nearly overwhelming. Still, he would have resisted if she hadn’t pushed him to the breaking point. The thought that she might not be as innocent as she seemed slammed him with a wave of possessiveness unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His iron control had snapped as easily as a dry twig. He’d wanted to ravage her senseless but found the primal instinct tempered by an unexpected wave of tenderness. He’d moved slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop him. If only she had.

  The moment his lips touched hers, he knew she’d never known a man’s passion. But by God, she would have known his if he hadn’t felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. The honey taste of her and the soft tremble of her mouth had sent an ache of such sublime perfection to his chest, he’d pulled back, leveled by the force of it. It hadn’t been lust at all, but something altogether unfamiliar and far more powerful.

  Not even an hour of listening to Bianca Gordon’s silly prattle could dampen the memory. That one little taste had irrepressibly whetted his appetite for more. He didn’t trust himself not to taste her again, and this time nothing would stop him from delving into the sweet recesses of her mouth and tasting her deeper. So rather than seek her out, to vent his anger or his lust, he did what he should have been doing the entire night and resumed his search for Lord Chancellor Seton.

  After a quick examination of the adjoining antechambers, Alex returned to the hall, joined a group of men discussing King James’s containment of the borders, and casually scanned the crowd for Seton. The sight that met his eyes made his blood run cold.

  Meg had blatantly ignored his warning. If anything, her circle of admirers had grown, though Alex couldn’t help noticing that her attention seemed focused on one man in particular.

  She’d defied him, though it shouldn’t surprise him. Meg Mackinnon challenged him in a way no woman had before. Normally, it might even amuse him. But right now, all he could do was force himself not to storm over there and smash his fist into the face of the man with whom she was engaged in deep conversation. An intimate conversation. Alex gripped the stem of his goblet tighter as the brazen fool leaned over and whispered close to her ear.

  Abruptly, he put down his claret, excused himself from the group of men, and headed straight for Meg. His anger had taken on an entirely different edge, one consumed by an emotion so foreign that he almost didn’t recognize it. Bloody hell, he was jealous.

  From the costume and mask the man wore, Alex realized he was the master of the revels for tonight’s performance. There was something else vaguely familiar about him, but Alex was too focused on Meg’s bewitching smile to ponder it further.

  So focused that he almost walked right into Lord Chancellor Seton. Mumbling an apology, Alex watched as Seton moved to exit the hall. This was just the opportunity he had been waiting for. He had to take it. Pushing aside his jealousy and the compulsion he felt to tear Meg away from her admirer, Alex turned to follow Seton. The lord chancellor was almost to the doorway; in a minute, he would disappear into the corridors. Alex took a few steps after him and swore, unable to resist one more glance across the room at Meg.

  It was a mistake.

  His entire body drew taut as he watched the man trail his fingers seductively down Meg’s arm, his knuckles brushing the full roundness of her breast. From the sly smile that curved the bastard’s mouth, Alex knew he had done it on purpose. Seton temporarily forgotten, Alex started back toward Meg, rage surging through his veins. Alex was going to kill him.

  The sly smile hovered on the edges of his memory.

  Alex had almost reached Meg when the man’s identity hit him. The blood drained from his face. As if he could feel the weight of Alex’s stare, the man turned and confirmed what Alex had already known. He would never forget the flat eyes of his enemy.

  The last five years faded away, and Alex stood on the bloody corrie under the looming majesty of the great Cuillin mountain range, catapulted back to the day that would be forever branded into his conscience.

  The promise of blood permeated the morning mist. His warriors were eager for battle. It was so close now, Alex could almost smell it.

  It was his first command, and Alex swelled with pride in the responsibility he’d been given. Not only would he lead his brother’s men, the MacLeods of Dunvegan, but he would also lead their kin the MacLeods of Lewis. Both branches of the clan had joined forces to fight the MacDonalds.

  They hunted their quarry from the giant shadow of the great Cuillin mountain range. The kinsmen, descendants from the sons of Leod, numbered near fifty warriors strong. A large group, yet they moved soundlessly up the grassy path, climbing ever higher into the looming mountain above them.

  Alex lifted his hand, signaling the men to halt. He motioned for two of his luchd-taighe guardsmen, his cousins John and Tormod from Lewis, to follow him. The three powerful mail-clad warriors took a few cautious steps forward, then got down on their bellies, slithering forward to peer over the edge of the hill.

  The sight below them was not a pretty one for a MacLeod. Their prey—the despised MacDonalds—were celebrating a successful foray below them. The stolen cattle that the MacDonalds had lifted during their bloody raid on his brother’s Bracadale lands grazed peacefully in the corrie along the grassy banks of the fairy pools.

  The bucolic scene fired Alex’s already smoldering anger. He was responsible for watching Rory’s lands while his brother was away. Even now, the brazen fools celebrated while still on MacLeod lands. Alex fought to control his anger, for this raid had occurred under his first command.

  It was time to teach the thieving bastards a lesson.

  With a fierce battle cry that pierced the quiet morning like the high-pitched wail of the Banshee, the MacLeod clansmen charged down the hillside and fell upon the unsuspecting MacDonalds.

  The battle had begun.

  The blistering sun moved slowly across the cloudless midsummer sky. After hours of relentless fighting, Alex and his m
en had long ago lost any advantage of surprise.

  At the head of the battle, Alex faced Dougal MacDonald, leader to leader, champion to champion.

  Blood saturated the crushed grass below Alex’s feet, making it difficult for him to move and maintain his footing. Sweat pooled behind the heavy mail and spewed off his weary limbs with each shattering stroke that he met of his opponent’s blade.

  His grip on his claymore was starting to slip.

  His vision clouded with perspiration that dripped from his brow. He fought to breathe through the overwhelming stench that filled the heavy air. The pungently sweet smell of death had long ago drowned out the fresh scent of heather.

  Alex was tiring. His opponent sensed it and swooped in for the kill. Alex met the powerful force of Dougal MacDonald’s stroke, and a shuddering pain exploded up his arm. His fingers loosened, and his claymore suddenly lifted from his hands. It flew through the air like a gleaming silvery cross and landed with a dull thud well away from him. Shocked by his disarmament, he turned back to find the point of his enemy’s blade pressed firmly at his throat.

  “Surrender,” Dougal warned. “Call off your men or we’ll slaughter them like the swine that they are.”

  Alex glanced around at the carnage surrounding him—a bucolic landscape no longer. Bodies littered the once peaceful corrie. Blood tinged the clear waters of the fairy pools a gruesome crimson. A few of his men were still fighting. Some, like him, were caught. No matter. While there was still breath left in his lungs, he would fight. He’d never willingly face the shame of surrender.

  He spat at Dougal’s feet, clenching the dirk still in his hand. “I’ll never surrender to a MacDonald whoreson.”

  Dougal MacDonald appeared pleased with Alex’s words. He nodded to two of his men standing across the corrie and smiled.

  In horror, Alex realized Dougal had motioned to the two men who held his captured cousins John and Tormod. Alex lashed out in protest and tried to pull away, but it was too late. His cousins tumbled to the ground in a horrible thud, gulleted—the dirk slashed across their throats so deep, there could be no doubt that they were dead.