Bought by the Raunchy Cowboy: A BBW Billionaire Romance

by Raina Wilde

  Chapter 2

  The hall smelled of pine; the logs blazing on the fire sending their resin-y scent into the air to mingle with the rich, heavy smell of roasted boar.

  Brian Leary, son of Laird Will, was seated at the top of the table. He was surrounded by the warlords and leaders of a dozen clans. He was in his element.

  “So, Brian? You'll lead the detachment on the right? ”

  “I will. ” Brian inclined his head, a gesture that would have looked modest on any other man. On him, it was simply imbued with the easy arrogance that always surrounds him like the sheen on a newly brushed racehorse.

  The servants moved in then, bringing the boar to the center of the table. The rich, meaty smell spilled out across the air.

  Their host for that night, Brian's uncle James, stood and addressed the group.

  “Friends, welcome to this feast!” His genial voice filled the hall. A few clapped, and some lifted their tankards. “We are lucky to have so many allies here tonight, ” he continued. “and, as I will not lead this war, I would like to take the chance to introduce to you my nephew, Brian. He will lead on the right flank. ”

  There were some congratulatory yells, and some of the warriors lifted their tankards towards Brian in salute. He inclined his head briefly.

  When the applause died down, Uncle James continued. “And so, if Brian will carve the boar for us. . ? ”

  Brian swallowed. He thought the task might fall to him. That made him the leader of this gathering. His uncle had placed him even higher than himself in the leading of the force. He stood, and, in the weighty silence, took the knife to cut.

  Everyone cheered as he passed the first slice to His uncle. Some of the men began to stamp, rhythmically. “Lear-Y, Lear-Y!” The room erupted in a battle cry of sorts. Brian looked down, a flush flooding up his neck and into his cheeks, burning.

  He had never been the center of so much attention. He was, to all intents and purpose, the spoiled and arrogant son of the most aspiring of the local clan chieftains, but he had never taken the lead in anything before. His father, with his crushing reputation, had always come first. That night, that month, in fact, his father was away.

  Brian looked up again. His dark eyes were warm. “Thank you, ” he said. Again, the words should have been modest, but were not. “Welcome, all of you, to this hall, and to this fighting force. ”

  The room erupted in cheers again. Wild, hard men, all of them, and born to fighting. This war was the best news they had had in years, it seemed.

  Brian walked back to his place, a slow, swaggering ceremony creeping into his lithe gait. He sat down, and grinned, suavely, at his friend across the table.

  The man, Arthur, returned the smile with a sourness beneath. He was the chief rival for the leadership. If Brian noticed the sharpness of that smile, he glossed over it.

  The servants returned, taking on the duty of cutting and portioning the meat. A plate arrived opposite Brian, a haunch of blood-dripped meat upon it.

  Brian looked past the plate to the girl who held it. She was young, and full-breasted, her face oval and smooth; her hair pale and curly. His dark, brooding eyes meet hers in a demanding stare. As he took the plate, his fingers closed over hers, possessively.

  She looked down, her hand cold and yielding in his. He released her fingers and let her go, after another meaningful glance. She would yield to him; the aspiring Laird. They all did. Brian ran his hand through his cropped dark hair, and settled to his food.

  At thirty, he was a darkly handsome man, tall but dense-muscled, so that his walk and every gesture were fluid with a lithe grace. His eyes were black and watchful, his mouth hard. He was, or should have been, stunningly handsome; but there was in him a hardness, a cruelty, which made the striking features brooding and forbidding.

  The evening wore on. The wine circulated, flowing freely and with it, the volume of talk rose. Brian was drinking heavily, his mug refilled with dark red wine each time he drained it by the man stationed discreetly at the wall. The flush of perspiration on his brow made his smooth skin glow, and the fire gleamed in his dark, wide eyes.

  Arthur, also drinking, leaned across the table. “So. . ? You going to the meeting tomorrow? ” He asked, casually.

  “What. . . meeting? ” Brian focused on his friend's mouth, his concentration blurred with wine.

  “The one at the McGowan's? ”

  “That meeting? Yes. ” His voice was firm. It would be against his father's dictates: he held himself distant from the McGowans and would not condone that any of his people visited their lands. That was why Brian had chosen to do it. His father's ways were old, and he would build them new. Be a better man; a better war-leader. The modern alternative.

  Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Good. ”

  They toasted each other with the wine. Brian tipped his head back, letting the dark wine drip down his chin. He was getting rather drunk.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes and Arthur's met. They shared a smile. The next day, Brian would take the first step on the path to be a rival to his father.

  Chapter 3

  Evening had fallen at the McGowan estate. The hall was brightly lit and smelled of rushes and the high, clear smell of tapers, pure beeswax that burned in the many sconces of the chandelier.

  Aigneis moved through the hall, and the light from the tapers caught her loose hair and made it flow and waver, a river of red gold. Her new-brushed hair was exactly in contrast with the rich, dark green of the dress she wore: McGowan tartan, worn with harsh pride. It lapped the floor when she walked, a slight train that had made her look even more regal, like a queen. Yet few queens walk with the muscled litheness of a warrior. Aigneis did as she moved seamlessly across the room and talked with allies at the high table. She was radiantly happy. That meeting was the culmination of so many years of planning, and she was proud to host it.

  Everything had been perfectly planned, from the wreaths of pine-branches on the tables to the tapers and the guest-list. Aigneis threw herself into it with her natural dedication and energy. She smiled that night and discussed warfare with her men. They were all sworn to her, would all die for her on a reflex.

  She was alone a while in the hall. She smiled, breathed out, and looked around the room. There is Rufus, there Seamus, she thought, scanning the room. And there. . . is that Luke? She grinned at a thickset older man, pale red beard gleaming in the candlelight. There's Dougal McLellan. She decided to go and speak to him, thank him for his offer of cavalry support.

  She glided across the hall. As she did, a movement at the door caught her eye. She looked up, and there was a new detachment she had not noticed, near the shadow of the arch.

  No! She thought. It cannot be. But it was. They were dressed, flagrantly, in the deep red tartan she hated. The tartan of the Learys. Aigneis felt her blood boil, with something like battle-rage that throbbed in her chest. She fought it down, and stalked across the room. She had to pass them, to reach the McLellan group. She lifted her head, and walked like a queen. I will ignore them. Filth! Her mind spat the word as she glided past, regal and aloof.

  “Eh. . . ” Someone in the red-clad group made a low sound, almost an assessment, an approval. As if she were a dinner servant, not the Laird.

  She had been going to walk past, ignoring their incursion. She had not wanted to disturb the easy atmosphere of the gathering with war. “Excuse me? ” She whipped round, eyes blazing. “I do not recall inviting your comment, sirrah. In fact, ” she paused, “I do not recall inviting you at all. This is no place for cowards. ”

  The hall was utterly silent. All eyes were on her.

  The man who made the noise stepped back, recoiling. One of the others gave a low whistle. In the center of the group, the tall dark man started. He had been standing still, considering. His head lifted, sharply. His eyes met hers.

  Pale green eyes stared into deep, storm-tossed black. Their gazes crossed, like swords. It was a long, hard look
. Aigneis felt her rage blacken, harden; build into a storm.

  “We are no cowards. ” His voice was dangerously silent. The man beside him looked nervously away. The tone was enough to wither him, but Aigneis was no supplicant of his.

  “I would need evidence for that, sir. ”

  He laughed, a harsh sound. “Evidence? ” His voice was hollow. “You shall have it. ”He turned to the nearest man, and held out a hand. The man passed him his gauntlets, which he had left on a low table. Brian laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. He half-expected that she would yield to him. Be too frightened of his strength to follow through. She was a woman, and, his father had taught him over and again, women were weak. Of no matter. He looked at her, a thin smile on his lips. Aigneis' eyes met those of a young man across the room. He inclined his head, and fetched her a sword.

  “If that was a challenge, I accept. ” Her voice was hard. Her gaze pierced him, holding him entirely captive on the razor-edge of it. He could not back down.

  He raised his arms, in mock-capitulation. He was trying to make a fool of her.

  The rage worked to the surface then, as if a volcano was erupting. She took one step forward, balancing her weight on one foot, about to make a strike. With the sword in her hand, the quiet gesture was menacing. Brian paled.

  The lithe ease of her motions made it quite clear she had been practicing sword-craft since her childhood, at least as long as he. Perhaps she was a match worth consternation. Something in him rose to the thrill of that. His height and bulk, with long hours of superior training, made him more than the match of all opponents. He had never before faced anyone who gave him cause for fear. The rest of him was boiling with hurt pride. How dare a woman make a fool of him? The petulant boy inside him won. The rage rose to his face, making him flush, an ugly dark color that stained his cheeks.

  “Very well. ” he said, ungracious. “I'll meet you on the field an hour after noon. ”

  “Very well. ” Her voice was easy, confident. She stood tall before him, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet as if already fighting. Their eyes locked again. It was a long, hard gaze. They both looked away at the same time. She whipped ‘round, hair flicking back over her shoulder, and walked icily down the hall.

  The meeting was utterly silent, all eyes trained on her.

  “Good evening, Dougal, ” she said sweetly, to Dougal McLellan, who blinked nervously. Everyone in the hall was watching them, her voice the only sound in the silence. “It was good to see you. ” She continued, blithely. “I would thank you, for your offer of cavalry troops. ”

  As she engaged him in conversation, the talk in the hall started up again, rising and falling, relieved. The noise swallowed the silence, and the movement of feet as the Leary delegation walked, hot-tempered, from the room.

  Chapter 4

  It was afternoon, in the field. The sun broke through the clouds, lending a silvered wash to the cloudy, gray-green scene. The field before the fortress of the McGowans was wide and green, bounded by a river, which wound across the space, bisecting it.

  In front of the river, Aigneis was standing. Her hair was loose, not braided. She was straight-backed and unyielding, a pillar of white and gold. Opposite her, the Leary group was a disordered one, the tall man in the center stooped to adjust his belt before he walked onto the field. As he did so, there was a cheer from his men. There was a crowd around them and the guests all looked forward to the confrontation with indecent eagerness.

  Aigneis had not moved. The sun glinted on her hair. She was balanced on the balls of her feet. Her lean muscles gave even her standing a compact, coiled grace. He walked around the field, a swaggering performance; collecting ironic cheers. He looked too confident. Aigneis stayed where she was. When he had finished inciting the crowd, he bent, and his gestures became truncated, businesslike. He drew his sword. He walked towards her, a lazy, slow walk. His eyes were half-shut, unreadable; his face in repose. Then, suddenly and without warning, he struck.

  Aigneis was ready. She whirled round, drawing her sword fluidly from the sheath at her back. The two blades clashed, drawing sparks. They were close, their bodies almost touching. She could see his eyes. Her eyes were raw, feral rage. How dare he try to trick her like that? As their eyes met, she pulled the blade around and swung savagely for his head. Left off-balance, he stumbled, parried just in time. The shock of that made his eyes widen. How dare she? His blade swung back, in murderous earnest; all easy arrogance gone. She was rooted to her place, her rage an anchor.

  Their blades met again, grating and jarring. He was strong, and taller than her. The shock of his strength in the heavy blade shuddered through the bones of her forearms. She looked up, with something like surprise. That cut! Not many warriors could make that. She whirled round, and tried her favorite swing. Few could anticipate it.

  He did. His blade rose, as she whipped ‘round, and met hers. Steel sparked. Their eyes met. Her raw surprise met a deep respect as he looked at her, his eyes level. He had never faced such an opponent.

  Her eyes widened. He blinked. Both of them felt it. A rawness, like need, that pulsed in the center of the body. Neither of them had met an equal before. The sweet shock of it ignited something long hidden in them both. She grated the blade across and down, breaking the lock. He staggered, recovered himself. Brought the blade up. Stopped. Their gaze still held each other. Neither moved.

  Around them, the crowd was quiet. No one knew quite what had happened. In the center of the circle, the two antagonists were still. His breath heaved in his chest. She was white and standing rooted, breathing heavy. Their eyes were still locked on each other. He inclined his head, slightly. A gesture of respect. She blinked.

  He lifted his arm. “Truce!”

  She was about to protest, her arms rising, when he turned to her. His eyes met hers. They spoke a complex message, which held yearning and respect and apology. She nodded.

  “I accept. ” Her voice was clear.

  His look was one of gratitude. He stumbled from the circle, joining his group of followers. She stepped back, into the crowd. Her legs were weak beneath her, and she stumbled, slightly, catching the arm of the man beside her, and steadying herself. Why was she so tired? She looked across the field to where the tall, muscled warrior was standing with his men, his breath heaving, as they clapped him on the back in congratulations. She blinked. Her chest ached as she watched him, a sudden longing and a sudden warmth.

  I have never felt like this, before.

  The thought was fleeting, and she hid it, her face smoothed over as she turned to Dougal, who declared the truce. Everyone on the field smiled and clapped. A small crowd formed around her, offering congratulations. She smiled politely and thanked them. Her eyes watched the group in blue as they left the field. She looked after the tall, dark warrior long after he had gone.

  Chapter 5

  Music spilled out of the hall, genial and warm; a lilting dance-reel. It was evening, and the sky outside was dove-blue, washed with yellow gold. It was a late summer evening, just chilled, but still holding the last of summer's warmth.

  The serious matters of the gathering were completed. The musicians were there, the ale flowed and there was a celebration, to solidify the agreements and celebrate the truces made and bonds re-forged.

  Aigneis was in her chamber, hovering at the door. Do I look right? Her thought was pensive, as she stepped into the corridor. She looked round, once; catching her image in the glass. It showed her a tall, slender woman, long gold-red hair unbound and shining, dressed in a gown of white lace. Aigneis looked, appraising. Her hair was brushed back from her face, her cheeks warm pink against the angular elegance of her face. Green eyes, gray-washed, the image of her father's, looked back out at her. She chided herself. This is silly. Even she could not choke the bubble of excitement that rose slowly in her chest. She walked, purposefully, back to the door and out to the stairs.

  Downstairs, the hall was packed. The music lifted and pulsed, bo
dhran and pipes mixing to make a throbbing liveliness, which would compel anyone to dance. Aigneis felt it gather inside her, joining with the pulsing anticipation she also felt.

  There was a table with oatcakes, and a barrel of mead. She smiled at Reese, the servant, and accepted a cup of mead. The sweetness of the drink rolled off her tongue. She felt alive, and warm; like she did as a girl. Before. . . before her father's death.

  Her hair was curled, a request that surprised her maid. Aigneis had never cared much for such things. The low-cut white lace wrapped her body, flowing out into a narrow train. She greeted guests and shook hands and exchanged a few polite words about stock and farms and families. All the while, her eyes were elsewhere.

  “Good evening. ”

  She smiled, looking up at the tall man in the blood-red kilt, standing opposite her. Her eyes were slanting green, warm and inviting. Her hair was golden floss, coiled round her shoulders.

  “Good evening. ” He cleared his throat.

  They stood opposite each other. He swallowed. He could not think of anything to say, and yet he did not want her to leave. “At least there is good weather, for your ride home tomorrow. ” Aigneis observed. Her voice was low with mead and evening, a rich, warm sound. Her smile was like clover honey.

  “Uh. . . yes. ” Brian felt himself stutter. He wanted to say something, but his voice had deserted him.

  “You will be staying? Or do you have some business, at home? ”

  “I. . . yes. I must go home. Duties. ” He shrugged. He lifted his weight to the other foot. “It. . . it's nice here, in the winter? ”Why did I ask that? He thought.

  “It's. . . pleasant. ” She smiled, her eyes looking into his, archly. “A little cold, but nothing dancing won't cure. ”

  It was an invitation. Her eyes, green and mischievous, looked into his. He felt himself smile. A warmth and innocence he did not know he had, dawned, tentative, on his stormy features. It transformed him, making him truly handsome. They looked at each other, their eyes warm and showing, now, the first signs of a deep, shared regard.