The Dreamer

by Greyson, Maeve

  Weapon still leveled at her target, her eyes narrowed even more. Sutherland could tell she knew her father thought this all a jest. He prayed she wouldn’t kill him just to prove the man wrong. After a few moments, she gave a regal nod. “Speak yer request. But know this, just because I hear it, doesna mean I shall grant it, ye ken?”

  Just to buy himself a bit more time and perhaps a wee tad of the lass’s favor, Sutherland dropped to one knee. Surely, the woman wouldn’t shoot a man kneeling at her feet. “All I ask, m’lady, is that ye grant me yer forgiveness for behaving like an ill-mannered cur. Please, I beg ye find it in yer heart to understand why I couldna help myself. The temptation was just too great. Yer beauty addled my wits and I lost all ability to reason.”

  The pistol didn’t waver. Lady Sorcha’s head tilted slightly, and one of her delicate brows arched higher. “So, ye’re saying the fault of yer uncomely behavior is mine?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” He was a dead man for sure. He could tell by her tone. Since he was already condemned to die, maybe he should ask for a kiss as well. Might as well die with the taste of this fine lass on his lips. “Dear woman, truly, I had never beheld such a rare loveliness as ye possess, and a man is always more motivated to win a fair woman’s approval when a wager is involved. Ye ken it’s our nature to compete—to strive for our love’s hand. The bet drove me even harder to win a sweet kiss from yer divine lips.”

  “My divine lips?” she repeated, making the words sound like a curse. “I’m the fairest woman ye’ve ever met, ye say? And ye needed the bet to give ye the courage to seduce me?”

  “Absolutely, m’lady. ’Tis the honest truth. I swear it.” Sutherland assumed the most woeful look he could manage. “I pray the angels are as lovely as yerself, m’lady. My death willna be so bad then, although, I’m certain, they’ll not be able to console me if ye dinna grant me yer forgiveness and maybe even a last kiss so I might find rest in the hereafter.”

  Lady Sorcha blew out a very unladylike snort. “If our stables were filled with as much shite as ye just spewed, our livestock would drown in it. I shouldha worn my boots. Ye’ve piled it arse-high in here.”

  “Daughter!” Chieftain Greyloch strode over and plucked the pistol out of her hand. “Such language! Enough of this foolishness now. Accept the man’s apology and be done with it. At least he asked yer forgiveness, and might I remind ye, he didna spread unseemly rumors about ye like some wouldha done once ye’d spurned them.”

  “A man will apologize for anything when he’s facing the barrel of a gun.” Lady Sorcha lifted her chin and pinned a damning glare on Sutherland.

  Even without the gun pointed at his chest, Sutherland remained on his knee. Timing was everything in battles such as these.

  Magnus stepped forward. “I assure ye, m’lady, that is the most heartfelt apology from this man I have ever witnessed.”

  Sutherland kept his gaze locked on her, but the sound of liquid being poured told him Magnus had stepped forward to pour himself another drink—not swear to Sutherland’s character. Magnus appeared at his side, whisky in hand.

  “And gun or not, I swear Sutherland is far too short-sighted and too stubborn to say anything he doesna mean—well, for the most part.” Magnus lifted his glass in a toast, then downed it. “The man is honest to a fault. Usually. I swear it.”

  “Ye are nay helping,” Sutherland said, ready to knock Magnus on his arse. Raising his voice, he turned his attention back to Lady Sorcha, determined to win at least an amicable look from the lass and maybe even the hint of a smile. “All flowery swearing aside, m’lady, I am sorry for the bet. It was childish, pompous, and a poor choice indeed. My mam wouldha cuffed me hard were she still walking this earth. I do beg yer forgiveness—whether ye’re still intent on killing me or not.”

  She rolled her eyes, gave the men a wide berth, and poured herself a glass of wine. “Why did Chieftain MacCoinnich send the two of ye rather than come here himself? Does he think so little of Clan Greyloch? It might be true we’re a small clan, but it’s apparent we have something he not only wants but needs. Would that not warrant a visit from the chieftain?”

  “Sorcha Elaine! Where in heaven’s name are yer manners?” Greyloch pointed his glass toward a sitting area in front of the window. “Let us all sit and get to the meat of this matter. That is, if my sharp-tongued daughter hasna already dissuaded ye with her insults.”

  Dissuaded? Nay. Intrigued? Aye and for certain. Lady Sorcha possessed the sort of fire Sutherland admired. She always had. And if there was anything he loved more than the lasses, it was a challenge. He rose from his kneeling position, poured himself another drink, and joined them. Raising his glass, he hid a smile behind it as Chieftain Greyloch and Magnus seated themselves in the only pair of chairs available, leaving a small, two-person sofa as the only remaining place to sit.

  “Da!” Lady Sorcha growled from between clenched teeth.

  Greyloch gave her a sharp look, then jerked a nod at the sofa. “Nay. Ye will sit beside the man and behave yerself. ’Tis yer penance for yer unladylike language and forgetting yer manners after Master MacCoinnich did his part by offering a heartfelt apology.”

  “Heartfelt apology, my—”

  “Sorcha!” Greyloch’s tone rang with parental warning.

  “I shall be happy to stand,” Sutherland offered with a gallant bow. “Please, m’lady. Have the sofa all to yerself with my blessing.”

  She bristled even more. She stomped over to the couch, dropped down with a huff, then smacked the cushion beside her. “By all means, Master MacCoinnich, please do sit beside me. I promise not to bite.”

  Bite away, lass. He’d not mind a nibble or two from this fair darling. His man parts took even more notice of the situation, forcing him to adjust the folds of his kilt to hide the lump in his trews. He settled down beside her, pleased to discover that the cozy piece of furniture tucked them together quite nicely. In fact, if he dared shift the barest bit to his right, his shoulder and flank might actually brush against hers. He cleared his throat. “Now, as to yer question about Chieftain MacCoinnich assigning this visit to myself and Master de Gray?”

  “Aye?” Lady Sorcha encouraged with a defiant glare.

  “Rest assured that Chieftain MacCoinnich holds Clan Greyloch in the verra highest esteem.” Sutherland paused, glancing over at Chieftain Greyloch to ensure the man knew he wasn’t just dancing about and flattering with words to make peace with the man’s daughter. “The size of a clan doesna guarantee its greatness. It is a clan’s courage and honor that matters.” He looked back at Lady Sorcha and smiled. “It’s not been so many years since Clan MacCoinnich’s ranks were decimated to less than a dozen. But we didna give up after the morbid sore throat tried to kill us all. We pushed onward and fought hard to get where we are today. Even survived the massacre at Glencoe. We sense that same courage and honor in Clan Greyloch, and we are proud to call ye allies.”

  “Be that as it may…” Lady Sorcha gave a graceful nod paired with a sly smile. “Ye didna answer my question. Why are ye here rather than yer chieftain?”

  Sutherland held his breath to keep from laughing aloud. Bless his soul, she was a stubborn minx, and he loved it. “I know horses and their needs far better than my brother. Alexander shines when it comes to planning battles, but when it comes to the precious breed that all of Scotland craves, Alexander only knows which end eats and which end shites.”

  By all that was holy, had the lady actually almost smiled? Not wishing to lose any progress he might’ve made with the enchanting mistress of Castle Greyloch, Sutherland turned his attention back to her father. “That is why I am here. Our stable master and I are in agreement. The glens remaining within Clan MacCoinnich’s holdings are not large enough for our stock. Without more grazing choices, we’ll not be able to increase the herds as we had planned. Grazing rights on Clan Greyloch’s lands would help us continue the growth we’d hoped to achieve over the next few years.”

  Chieftain Greyloc
h didn’t respond. Instead, the intensity of his glare sharpened as he locked eyes with his daughter.

  Lady Sorcha gave the slightest shake of her head.

  “Ye wish us to turn over our lands to the MacCoinnich herds?” Greyloch asked. “When ye ken as well as I that yer men will have to accompany yer horses and could verra well interfere with the effective grazing of our own prized Highland cattle? Is this yer poor attempt to expand yer borders and swallow up Clan Greyloch like ye did Clan Neal?”

  This time it was Magnus’s turn to give a warning shake of his head in Sutherland’s direction. The silent signal advised that words needed to be chosen with care and not allow tempers to speak. Sutherland dipped his chin in acknowledgment that the message had been received, but Magnus’s warning was unnecessary. Chieftain Greyloch’s inquiry was valid. Sutherland expected no less from the man.

  “We would never attempt such, sir. Our solicitor would draw up a document stating our full intent for the benefit of both clans that would also offer Clan Greyloch a percentage in the profits from the sale of any herds rotated through yer lands.” That should ease some of their doubts. MacCoinnich horses brought a dear price, and buyers traveled from far and wide to purchase the much sought-after breed.

  “What percentage?” Lady Sorcha asked.

  Sutherland had wondered how long she’d be able to remain quiet. She’d fidgeted beside him like a worm in hot coals. Curious, he decided to see just how much she would say instead of allowing her father to negotiate the agreement. Perhaps a wee test was in order to see if the lass was as clever as she was beautiful. Rumors hinted that it was she who truly ran the clan. The whispers also claimed her father was too addled with age to handle the duties of a chieftain. Sutherland barely controlled his amusement at that idiocy. Chieftain Greyloch was definitely in full possession of his faculties.

  “Twenty percent,” Sutherland said in a tone that dared her to argue. Alexander had given him permission to go as high as fifty percent, but they didn’t have to know that—at least, not yet.

  Lady Sorcha gave him a look that said he could go straight to hell. “Preposterous! Ye mean to have yer horses clip our pastures clean and only offer us twenty percent? Nay! Keep yer beasts on yer own land or risk getting shot.”

  Sutherland warmed even more to the game, daring to shift so close the delicious heat of her caressed his thigh. “I’m quite open to negotiation, m’lady. What do ye propose?”

  Her gaze dipped to the lack of space between them, but she held her ground—even dared to scoot closer, so the length of her fine long leg pressed against his. Damnation. The woman was trying to kill him. He resettled his arms across his lap to conceal his admiration.

  “Sixty-five percent,” she stated loud and firm. “Whilst horses and cattle graze in different ways, the herds will have to be managed carefully to prevent stripping the land bare and rendering it useless for either of them. Not only will we be sharing our land, it’ll take more of our herders to ensure the animals are moved properly from glen to glen.”

  “Forty percent.” Maybe if he made her negotiate longer, she’d move closer still. Lord Almighty, what he wouldn’t give to get her in his lap.

  She didn’t blink those gorgeous eyes of hers that had shifted to a more golden shade with her ire. “Seventy percent,” she said.

  “Daughter!”

  Chieftain Greyloch barked out the word, but Lady Sorcha held up a hand to silence him without breaking her gaze from Sutherland’s. “What say ye Master MacCoinnich?”

  “I say ye’re going the wrong way, m’lady.” Emboldened by her daring, Sutherland slid his hand under hers and lifted it for a kiss. “Fifty percent and the finest colt born to the herd this spring belongs to ye personally. I’ll see to its training myself so, ye’ll have a fine new mount to ride when it comes of age.” He allowed his lips to linger on the silkiness of her skin a bit longer to help her decide.

  “Fifty percent and my pick of the foals born to the herd every year ye use our lands. Be it a colt or not that I choose, one foal comes to Greyloch stables each year. What say ye?” With a smug look, she pulled her hand free of his.

  “Fifty percent, yer pick of the foals every year, and a kiss to seal our bargain.” Sutherland couldn’t resist. Her full lips looked as delectable and succulent as fresh berries.

  “Done, sir.” She leaned forward and brushed a glancing kiss across his cheek as she rose and hurried to take a stance beside her father’s chair. “A fair and suitable agreement. Do ye not agree, Da?”

  Chieftain Greyloch beamed with a self-satisfied grin. “Well done, daughter. Shall we drink on it, sirs? Then I shall have our own solicitor draft the document for yer solicitor’s perusal, aye?”

  “Not yet,” Sutherland said as he slowly rose. Lady Sorcha thought herself clever with that harmless peck on his cheek, but he wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Our bargain isna sealed as yet. There’s still the matter of the kiss.”

  “Ye received yer kiss, sir. On yer cheek.” Victory sparkled in her eyes. The lass was so pleased with herself; she could barely stand still.

  “Nay, m’lady. That wee pecking was little more than a greeting to a friend or a brother.” He took a step closer. “I am neither. I’m a man looking to seal an agreement until papers are drawn and signatures are rendered.” He moved forward again, until he stood close enough to take her in his arms. “Or are ye afraid?” he dared.

  “Afraid?” She spit out the word like throwing down a gauntlet.

  Sutherland resettled his stance. Aye, he’d read the vixen correctly. The lady wouldn’t tolerate anyone thinking her afraid of anything. “Aye, m’lady. Afraid. We’re hardly unchaperoned. Yer father sits right here. What else could it be holding back yer gift of a proper kiss other than fear?”

  “My own good sense, and ensuring ye realize ye’ve not been forgiven for being such an arse!” She didn’t retreat, but nor did she step forward.

  Chieftain Greyloch sidled around in his chair to improve his view, his grin stretching into a full-blown smile.

  Sutherland held out a hand as though asking the lady to dance. “A genuine kiss to bind our bargain is just that, and I assure ye, m’lady, I know damn good and well ye’ve not forgiven me.” It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms and crushing her against him. A groan almost escaped him at the sight of her wetting her lips. He refused to retreat. She would learn he was as stubborn as she.

  It was when her eyes narrowed the slightest bit and her jaw tightened that Sutherland knew he’d won.

  Lady Sorcha closed the space between them, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her curves against his hardness with daring. Her lips brushed across his as she spoke, “Well? Get on with it then.”

  Sutherland tangled his fingers in the braid at the base of her neck, tilted her back, and wrapped his other arm around her. With her locked closer, he took her mouth, pouring every ounce of frustration, desire, and admiration she had stirred within him into the kiss. She tasted of wine and the firm realization that one kiss from this rare woman would never be enough.

  Her embrace tightened, and she opened her mouth wider, tasting him with as much ferocity as he tasted her. She inflamed him more than any woman ever had before. Hell fire, if she didn’t kill him with a pistol, she’d surely kill him with the sheer obsession to possess her. Before he could stop it, he groaned and pressed his hardened length into her softness even more.

  Lady Sorcha broke the kiss. Pushing herself out of his arms, she straightened her clothes as well as her hair. “There, sir. Is that kiss a good enough seal for our bargain until proper documentation is available?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” he managed to utter. “That kiss most definitely sealed everything.”

  The Bard coming soon – please subscribe to www.dragonbladepublishing.com for updates

  About the Author

  “No one has the power to shatter your dreams unless you give it to them.” That’
s Maeve Greyson’s mantra. She and her husband of almost forty years traveled around the world while in the U.S. Air Force. Now, they’re settled in rural Kentucky where Maeve writes about her beloved Highlanders and the fearless women who tame them. When she’s not plotting her next romantic Scottish tale, she can be found herding cats, grandchildren, and her husband—not necessarily in that order.

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