Arabella opened her mouth to argue with her husband and found herself being kissed, thoroughly by the looks of it, into silence. Alan sat back, giving them some bit of privacy and looked out at those yet eating and drinking in the hall of The Mackintosh.
With unerring and yet alarming accuracy, his gaze found that of the widow Saraid MacPherson. This time, she was staring back at him. Catching her, he nodded and smiled. Mayhap he should meet the widowed Saraid MacPherson after all?
‘If you will excuse me,’ Alan said as he rose from his chair. When Brodie waved him off without breaking the kiss he was giving Arabella, Alan considered himself free to leave.
He fought off the growing anticipation within him, now that he’d made the decision to meet the woman. He forced his feet to slow and greeted several people along the way to where she sat. When he realised he was counting the number of tables between him and her, he stopped and turned away. Reaching for an empty cup, he filled it from a pitcher and then drank half of it down in the first swallow.
Bloody hell, but what was happening to him?
He was not some untested, untried youth. He’d experienced first love and lost it and survived. He’d bedded a number of women. And yet, the way his gut threatened to heave, one would think he was a virgin. Alan forced a laugh at someone’s words and tried not to glance over at her.
Three damned tables away, she spoke with Clara.
Standing next to each other, heads together, speaking together, they were a contrast in appearance. Clara stood tall and lush with dark auburn hair and a full smile that she used often and well while the cousin was shorter and dark-haired. As he’d watched, she smiled little and when she did, those seemed shy and tentative. But then one was kin and known to all in the hall and the other was a visitor and a stranger, which could account for the reticence in her demeanour.
Somehow, as he’d been watching and comparing the two women, his feet had led him right to them. Lucky for him, Clara’s husband took note of him before they did.
‘Alan,’ James said, nodding to him. ‘You’re back from your travels then?’ The blacksmith had been a friend for years now. They had both been close in age when they’d met during the struggle between the Mackintosh cousins that ended with Brodie’s ascension to the clan’s high chair.
‘Aye,’ Alan said, accepting more ale from the pitcher that James lifted off the table. ‘Done travelling for a while, I suspect.’
‘Well, you ken I would gladly accept your help, if you are looking for something to fill your time,’ James offered. Alan glanced over his shoulder as the man spoke. ‘She is rather fetching, is she not?’
Alan could have ignored the question or tried to laugh it off. He decided to do neither.
‘Aye.’
It was the only word he could utter as he took his first close look at the widow Saraid MacPherson. If he had thought her unremarkable, he’d been very, very wrong indeed. Alan blamed the distance that had separated them for the mistake. Now, as he walked with James towards Clara and her cousin, Alan could see that her eyes were an interesting blend of blue and gold.
Interesting? Hell, they were beautiful. As was the rest of her, from her heart-shaped face with full lips that begged to be kissed to the creamy skin of her graceful neck that led to... Hell! He was damned now! Worse, he’d been so entranced by the sight of her that James had continued speaking while he gawped and Alan had no idea what the man had said.
Yet Saraid had not even looked at him. Alan gathered his scattered wits and tried to follow James’s words. The knowing sparkle in his friend’s eyes told him that James was enjoying his discomfort. He would pay for that.
‘My wife’s cousin is visiting to help with the bairns,’ James said, kicking Alan’s foot to gain his attentions. ‘Saraid, may I make you known to Lady Arabella’s cousin, Alan?’
‘My lord,’ she said quietly, lowering her head respectfully and dipping into a curtsy.
‘Nay, Mistress MacPherson, not a laird nor nobleman,’ he said, shaking his head and watching a lovely blush creep up into her cheeks. ‘Just Alan Cameron.’
While James laughed at his words and Clara smiled, the woman had a different reaction. The pink in her cheeks left abruptly and was replaced by a pallor that reminded him of...fear. What had caused that?
* * *
Sorcha fought the urge to clutch at Clara for support when the man spoke his name. She’d noticed him when he’d entered the hall and walked to the raised table in the front, joining those closest to the chieftain. What woman alive and breathing would not notice a man like him? Tall and muscular with his long, dark-brown hair gathered back behind his head, he strode through the place with the lethal grace of a natural predator and the confidence of one who knew his place and liked it.
She must have been too obvious in staring, for he’d looked in her direction several times through the meal. Sorcha tried to concentrate on Clara’s words and introductions and to play along with the story of her that they’d created to cover her identity. In changing the detail of her betrothed dying to her husband dying, it had made some men here a bit bolder in their introductions. As she watched his approach, she wondered if it made a difference to him.
She’d seen men like this in her father’s hall and noticed the way women watched them with hunger in their gazes. These same men never slept alone or wanted for companionship. As he came closer, it did not escape her that many women in this hall did not miss a move he made.
Now, as he stood before her, his blue gaze almost glowing as he stared at her, her mouth went dry, her palms sweaty and she lost her ability to think. Until she misspoke and he revealed his name—his full name.
Cameron.
Alan Cameron.
Cameron.
Her first instinct was to run. The urge came over her so quickly and strongly that she almost ran. But she’d not survived so far by acting on fear alone. No, she must control her fears once again to survive this situation. Sorcha coughed to make herself breathe and turned away to give herself a moment to gather her control. After smoothing her gown down, she faced James and Clara and...him.
‘Your pardon,’ she said, nodding to Clara first. If there was a small pause in the conversation, James had not noticed for he stepped right into the gap.
‘Alan may be a Cameron, but we try not to let that colour our regard for him.’ The smile that accompanied the mild insult told her that there was true affection between these two.
‘My thanks, friend,’ Alan said, aiming a mock punch at James’s shoulder. ‘And I try not to forget that you are a Mackintosh, Jamie.’ Then, when a most mischievous and alluring smile lifted the corners of his mouth, he winked at her. ‘But I am but one among many and must have a care.’
A wave of heat passed through her then, teasing and tickling its way through every bone and muscle in her. She did not know why he affected her so, but it could not go on. With his gaze on her and James and Clara glancing her way, they were waiting for her to speak. A question—she should ask a question. With no understanding of his place here and worried over revealing too much of her own, she must tread carefully.
‘Do you visit Glenlui often, then?’
‘I do,’ he said.
‘He does,’ James and Clara said together.
‘That much, then?’ she offered, catching the humour in their tones.
‘Since the truce has held between our clans, I split my time between here and Achnacarry, my uncle’s seat.’
Gilbert Cameron was his uncle. Luck was on her side for now because she’d met or seen so few of The Cameron’s men when he’d visited Sween Castle. And this one had not been one of those few. Alan did not react as though she was familiar to him, so she let out her breath and she nodded politely ‘So are you from Cluny?’ he asked.
For a fleeting moment, she thought on the sto
ry of her background they’d created and shook her head. With a shrug and then a nod, she sought to clarify it to him.
‘Originally, aye, my mother’s family lived in near Cluny. But my husband...’ She paused and took a slow breath. ‘My husband was kin to the MacNeills.’
‘MacNeills are allies of the Mackintoshes,’ he said, looking around the hall then. ‘I am certainly outnumbered here.’ His laugh made her insides melt a little. Deep and full, it resonated through her. ‘That was unseemly, Mistress. My condolences on your husband’s passing.’
She did not speak, but nodded at his kindness in spite of the false need for it. Clara’s knowing gaze flashed a warning to her. Had she sensed the growing weakness in Sorcha at keeping up the pretence? She’d been introduced to so many people, both tonight in the hall during this gathering as well as in the village over the last weeks. And each one asked after her husband and her grief, expressing what felt like true concern and sympathy.
From what Clara had told her, all of them had dealt with death and loss over the last decades as war waged between their clan and the Camerons. Only the strength of will of their present chieftain and the powerful love of his Cameron wife brought it to an end with their marriage and a lasting truce. Which made it possible for this Cameron to be standing here in their midst without fear.
‘I thank you for your kind words,’ she said. Now it was James’s turn to bat at his friend and laugh.
‘Alan is many things, but kind is not usually his manner,’ James jested.
She expected Alan to reply to his friend’s jest, but another man approached just then and interrupted.
‘Brodie wants to speak with you.’
This man was tall and very attractive. Were none of the Mackintosh men here plain of face? Though his tone of voice was mild, there was an undercurrent in his words and something more in the expression on his face. Sorcha had seen this man several times, in the village and here in the keep, but had not been introduced to him.
‘Rob, have you met Clara’s cousin yet?’ Alan asked.
Rob. Rob Mackintosh. Commander of the Mackintosh warriors. A formidable fighter and most loyal man to his cousin Brodie. All those things Clara had mentioned now made sense on seeing the man. But not once had she spoken of his rugged attractiveness.
‘Eva told me of you,’ Rob said, nodding to her. ‘Saraid?’
‘Aye, Saraid MacPherson,’ she repeated. Each time she spoke the name it felt easier. ‘I met Lady Eva earlier,’ she said, making the connection between this husband and his wife whom she’d met before. As she watched, Rob glanced over towards the lady at the mention of her name, his gaze filled with an expression of such complete and utter love that it made Sorcha’s own heart pound.
‘Alan,’ Rob spoke his name and canted his head in the direction of his chieftain. ‘Now, I think.’ Walking off without another word, the man stopped and gathered a few others as he made his way to the front of the hall.
‘I will see you in the village?’ James said to his friend.
‘Aye. In the morn if Brodie has no use for me,’ Alan answered. Turning to face her, he smiled again. ‘I hope to see you again, Mistress MacPherson.’
She said nothing, could say nothing to those words, but she did smile and nod. Then he walked in that same predatory gait away from her. Sorcha could not move her gaze from him and part of her hoped he would turn back once more.
Clara spoke to her and yet the words mattered not. James’s voice entered the conversation with his wife and still Sorcha heard nothing and saw only Alan as he moved in purposeful strides away from her. Then as he reached the steps and climbed up them, he stopped and did turn, meeting her stare with one of his own. A smile followed and Sorcha could not stop herself from returning it.
With a word from Brodie, he was gone, off to some chamber behind the table with the others and she was left with what must be a silly smile on her face. She faced Clara then, finding her cousin and her husband gawping at her, open-mouthed and slack-jawed in astonishment.
‘I thought you said she was going to a convent on Skye,’ James whispered loud enough for them both to hear.
Clara grasped her arm and pulled her close. ‘I think we need to talk, Sor... Saraid.’ As they took a few steps towards the doorway, Clara whispered again, ‘About that convent.’
James burst out in laughter as they walked away, not even trying to be subtle about it. The Mackintosh’s hall was a rather boisterous place so it did not seem awkward. Clara glanced over her shoulder, gifting her husband with a threatening look that quelled him a bit.
Sorcha could not explain her reaction to Alan Cameron. Of all the men here, he was the most dangerous to her. God forbid his uncle come here and recognise her. God forbid she slip up and err in front of him. What had James said about him? Ah, aye, he liked to find things. He found and sorted clues to find missing things and people.
He’d found Lady Arabella when she’d been kidnapped by Brodie. He’d tracked another of their kin when outlaws had attacked the village and taken her. He found people...
All the enjoyment she’d felt during the last few hours soured as she realised he was the worst possible man or person at that for her to spend too much time around. Her inexperience with men while under her father’s protection left her with little knowledge of how to protect herself from him. She would need to rely on Clara for guidance in this. When she let out a sigh, Clara held on to her tighter and walked faster away from the keep and back to the village.
Sorcha understood the danger of him. Of his appeal. Of his smile. Of the way he met her gaze and stared back. But, for tonight, she would allow herself the weakness of savouring those few special moments in which he’d been with her. The cold light of day and the reality of her situation would be forced on her soon enough.
Worse, in the dark of that night, Sorcha dreamed of the one man she could never claim as hers.
Chapter Four
Alan followed Brodie and the others closest to him in loyalty and kinship out through a doorway to a chamber off the kitchens where they would have a measure of privacy. Though he did not ken the subject to be discussed, Alan suspected that word of his uncle’s actions had gotten back to Brodie through a means other than himself.
And Brodie would ask for his opinion on the matter.
He exhaled as he considered what his words might be and what they must be. No matter how much he liked and admired Brodie or disliked his uncle, he was first a Cameron. Entering the surprisingly large chamber, he walked across and stood, back against the wall, waiting for Brodie to begin.
Rob, as always, stood at his side. A few of the elders were here as well. Alan recognised Grigor, the man Brodie thought would lead the clan after the in-fighting that nearly destroyed them. Magnus, a warrior married to Rob’s sister, now served on the council of elders. He smiled then, remembering Magnus’s reaction to being called an ‘elder’—no one did that after the first time. Fergus, Brodie’s steward here at Drumlui Keep, was the last man to enter and one he had not expected to be present. He closed the door and stood in front of it, waiting on his lord’s words.
‘I have received word that Gilbert met with Hugh MacMillan near Ballachulish recently,’ Brodie began. The chieftain’s dark gaze did not leave Alan’s face as he spoke. ‘They met for the purpose of a betrothal.’
Though the others were surprised by this news, Alan did not, by word or look, feign ignorance of the event. He owed Brodie his honesty even if he could not disclose what he knew of the matter.
‘Who was to marry whom?’ Rob asked. Since both The Cameron and The MacMillan were widowed, either could have been seeking a bride. Alan almost smiled at the astute question from Brodie’s friend.
‘Apparently The Cameron went seeking a bride,’ Brodie answered.
‘Who is he to marry?’ Grigor asked, crossing his
arms over his massive chest. ‘How many daughters does The MacMillan have?’
Though older than any of them, the man seemed to grow in robustness as he added years to his age. Having taken Arabella’s aunt to wife recently, he was both strong and content and Brodie always counted on him for his support and knowledge. Alan waited to see exactly how much Brodie knew about The MacMillan’s only daughter.
‘He had one,’ Brodie said, again staring at Alan as he spoke. Alan gave a slight nod, confirming his knowledge.
‘Had?’ Rob asked. ‘What the bloody hell happened to her?’
Alan wanted to laugh at the way Rob managed to curse in almost every sentence he uttered, but this was not the time for levity. The lass’s demise bothered him still. Brodie watched him, waiting, so Alan stepped away from the wall and crossed to stand before the chieftain.
‘The MacMillan’s only daughter apparently fell into the rain-swollen river in the middle of the night and drowned.’ Silence lay heavy over those present for a few moments and Alan added nothing more.
‘Better a quick death in the river than a slow one married to Gilbert.’
Alan whirled around to see who had spoken those words, both shocked and intrigued that someone else had come to the same realisation that he had. But, of course, he had never said it aloud. Magnus met his stare and nodded.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Alan?’ Brodie asked, drawing Alan’s attention back. Not ‘want to tell us’. Brodie understood his predicament, for he was a man caught between honour and loyalty.
‘Nay, my lord,’ he said, bowing then to the powerful man.
‘Then I pray you to seek out your cousin and escort her to our chambers.’
Without another word, Alan accepted the dismissal and walked to the door. Fergus stepped aside and opened it for him. It closed behind him and he’d taken only two paces when the uproar within the chamber erupted. Between the deep distrust that yet ran deep between their clans and that which they held for Gilbert, the shouting and arguing did not surprise him. Knowing Brodie, he would allow each man a say before coming to any conclusions. And before coming back to Alan.
Claiming His Highland Bride Page 4
