She gazed up at his face, her fingers flexing in his. “I don’t know,” she said finally, then pulled her hand free and walked away.
“Thank God,” he muttered darkly, and with a scowl went to toss another round of cabers.
It hadn’t been a rousing endorsement, but it was better than a slap in the face. Whether Rowena realized it or not, she’d just said she was giving him a chance. And he didn’t mean to waste it.
Chapter Eleven
“Why do so many of these games involve throwing heavy things about?” Jane asked, holding Black Agnes’s bridle as Rowena settled herself into the sidesaddle. Proper or not, today she would almost have preferred to ride astride, but as none of her English friends would ever do such a thing, she supposed it wouldn’t be fair. Flora Peterkin was riding astride, and so was Lady Bridget Cameron, but neither of their ponies could match Black Agnes on her worst day. Not on a two-mile-long course.
“When the English took away our swords and guns,” she said, checking to be certain her riding hat wouldn’t blow off and startle any of the mounts, “the men looked for other ways to show their strength. And to show the Sassenach that we weren’t finished fighting, even if we had to resort to throwing rocks.”
Jane nodded, turning her head to watch a stout, large-muscled man walk past. “It’s impressive. And somewhat intimidating. Did you see how far Lord Gray threw that last caber? And the blood on his arm when he wiped his brow? It was rather … magnificent.”
Yes, it had been, the devil. And he’d bested Bear, which almost never happened. The thought that tonight he wanted to come to see her, even with all the other lasses looking at him today, even with any hope of a match between them gone—and not knowing if she’d decided to let him in or not—left her hot and rather … uncomfortable. A shivery thrill ran down her spine and settled between her legs. Then she noticed Jane looking up at her expectantly and shook herself. “He did quite well, yes.”
“Ah, he cheated.” Bear strolled up and tugged on the saddle cinches. “Well, nae cheated, precisely, but he distracted me. I nearly put that last caber into the cook’s tent.”
“I saw that,” Rowena returned, putting on a grin. “We would have had to eat smashed venison tonight.”
“Aye. Flattened deer.” He squeezed her ankle. “If ye beat that Sarah Parker, I’ll purchase ye a new gown.”
“Why do you want me to beat Sarah?”
“I reckon she might have it in her mind that she deserves a prize if she wins, and I’m damned tired.”
Jane’s face turned scarlet, but Rowena snorted. “Poor man. I’ll do what I can, but I’ll not make any promises.”
He nodded, taking the bridle from Jane to lead Black Agnes over to the starting line. “What was that pretty-faced Buchanan chewing on yer ear aboot all morning?”
“He was reciting poetry,” she returned.
“Poetry? Aboot the Highlands, at least?”
Rowena shook her head. “The latest Byron poem. It was very lyrical.”
“My arse is very lyrical.”
“Munro Branan MacLawry,” she burst out, trying not to laugh. “You cannot go about saying such things in polite company.”
“Are ye polite company now?” he returned, a crooked grin on his face. “Because I saw yer face while he was reciting at ye, piuthar, and I reckon ye would rather have been watching the games.”
She sighed. That was the rub, wasn’t it? “Today, aye. But the games are only once a year, and I like poetry.”
“Then tell him to write ye some, and nae steal someone else’s words.”
“He’s not so bad, Bear. You’ll get used to him.”
He tilted his shaggy head. “Ye mean ye’ll get used to him. I’ll be here, at Glengask.”
Before she could spend any time contemplating that pair of rather insightful comments from her brawny brother, Arran approached, lifting a flag to one side of the line of riders.
“Are ye ready, lasses?”
“Aye,” she called, wrapping her hands into the reins, the response echoed by the twelve other women on the line.
“Then ready, set, and … go!” He dropped the flag.
The course was marked by hay bales and stakes with ribbons tied to the tops. The course was just over two miles long, beginning along the shoreline of the loch, then winding up to the edge of the trees, back around the front of the massive piles of granite boulders, up the hill toward the castle, and then back down into the meadow.
Black Agnes lunged into the lead, with Rowena low along her back and murmuring her encouragement. She glanced over her shoulder to see Flora Peterkin and Sarah Parker directly on her heels, the rest fanned out beyond them.
Sarah’s bay mare, Precious, caught them at the trees, but Rowena held Agnes in—this wasn’t a sprint, and clearly Sarah was very eager about something. She grinned, the wind chilling her teeth. It would serve Bear right, but she hadn’t entered this race to lose it.
At the top of the hill she gave Black Agnes her head. The mare shot forward, dirt and grass kicking into the air under her hooves. Rowena whooped, the sound echoed by the crowd of MacLawry cotters ahead at the finish line.
They drew even with Precious halfway down the hill, and Rowena caught Sarah’s expression of surprised dismay as Agnes pounded into the lead. Breathless, grinning, her hair flying about her face, Rowena whooped again as they crossed the line with half a length to spare.
“Ye’re a grand, bonny lass, ye are,” she panted, patting Black Agnes on the withers. The mare’s ears flicked forward and back, and she neighed.
The crowd closed around them, and then Lachlan was there, lifting his arms to her. Rowena kicked out of her stirrup and took hold of his shoulders. When he lifted her into the air she felt a completely different kind of breathless. This man wasn’t hers, couldn’t be hers, and yet …
What she needed to remember was that he’d had his chance. He wasn’t some man she’d just met for the first time when she’d returned to Glengask. They had a past, where he’d ignored her flirting and left her to walk home when she’d pretended Black Agnes had gone lame.
But at the same time, he hadn’t teased her about how she felt. He hadn’t flaunted other women in front of her. In fact, as she began to see all her hounding and flirting from his point of view, she realized that he’d been … kind. And good-humored. And at times, indulgent.
“What is it, Rowena?” he asked, setting her feet on the ground but keeping his hands around her waist.
She moved closer, to whisper into his ear. “I won’t lock my door,” she murmured, then turned to receive Ranulf’s congratulations before she could see how Lachlan would respond to that. She supposed she would find that out, tonight. After all, as he’d said, she hadn’t been proposed to, yet.
* * *
They dined that night in the meadow, on stumps and logs and chairs, on blankets and seated on the cool grass. The Campbell had arrived late in the afternoon with two dozen of his men, and they sat mingled with MacLawrys and Stewarts and MacDonalds. No one drew a dagger, no one reminded anyone else of past misdeeds or brought up old blood feuds. That, despite the fact that the hulking Dermid Gerdens, one of the men who’d nearly killed Arran and her in London, was part of the Campbell’s entourage. This gathering was a new start for all the clans, though. Even the Gerdenses.
Rowena’s family had done this. Ranulf had worked for most of his life to make a peace in the Highlands, and then Arran had eloped with the Campbell’s granddaughter and had convinced the Campbell and the MacLawry to shake hands. It was, quite simply, remarkable.
Rowena looked over at Robert Cranach, sitting only a few feet away and downing a mug of ale. Her family had done so much for the Highlands, for their people, and Ranulf had asked her—well, ordered her now—to do one more thing. It should have been an easy thing, too; Rob was handsome, charming, and cultured.
But it wasn’t that easy. Not any longer.
Lachlan was wild, and impetuous, and proud to be so.
He was already an integral part of clan MacLawry, and brought with him no new alliances. He bled Highlands red, and would never be happy in London, or even in Edinburgh or Aberdeen. That didn’t matter, of course—except that it did. Because whatever her mind told her, that it was settled and she was merely waiting for flowers and a man on bended knee, her heart wasn’t nearly as certain.
On that cue Bear and Lachlan strolled into the small cleared area around the bonfire. Both wore sabers in scabbards on their hips. She smiled, something deep and heated running through her.
Jane took her arm. “Are they going to fight?” she whispered, concern on her face.
“No. They’re going to dance.”
“Dance? Did you know?”
Angus Mackles, who’d been Glengask’s chief piper since before she was born, came into view and took a place on the far side of Bear. The two men unsheathed their sabers and set them on the ground, forming a pair of crosses with the scabbards.
Right hands curved up into the air and left toes pointed, they waited. Then with a wail the music began, and they stepped into the dance. Perfectly together, perfectly in unison.
“What does it mean?” Jane whispered after a moment.
“It’s about power, and controlling it,” Rowena answered, her gaze never leaving Lachlan. “They step and jump aboot the sword to all four points of the compass, crossing back and forth. If they touch a blade it’s bad luck for the clan, but they get as close as they can to show they have no fear.”
“Oh. It’s rather splendid. Do you sword dance, Lord Robert?” her friend asked.
“No. It’s a very old-fashioned dance. I do waltz, though.”
It wasn’t old-fashioned. It was fierce, and very difficult, especially when performed in tandem. And it was mesmerizing, in a way she’d never noticed before. The flex of strong, hard calf muscles, the flash of knees, the swirl of MacLawry plaid with the blood-red bands picking up the firelight, and the sweet, ancient sound of the lone pipes.
When they’d danced the four points each returned to his original position. They stopped, the music stopped, and they bowed in the same heartbeat. For a long moment the only sound in the clearing was the crack of the fire and the soft exhalation of the bagpipes.
And then the gathered clans roared. Tonight, they were all fierce, free, blood-spattered Highlanders.
Rowena stood. Green eyes met hers across the firelight. “I’m quite tired tonight,” she said, her gaze still on Lachlan. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
* * *
Lachlan downed the mug of beer someone handed him, then nearly choked on it as another lad pounded him on the back. The sword dance had been Bear’s idea, and he was still somewhat surprised that Ranulf had given his approval. But he had, and by God, they’d shown the clans that the MacLawrys still remembered the old ways. Most of the other clans had already learned that the MacLawrys also embraced the new—or at the least were willing to turn it to their own advantage.
All that spun through his mind as moments of later significance. At present, he was mostly interested in watching Rowena head back up the hill toward Glengask Castle, two footmen flanking her. From her expression just before she’d left, she wanted him to join her up there. He was certainly more than willing to do so.
He could only hope this meant that she’d realized how much she valued her own culture and traditions, because he figured he had been lumped into that basket. At least tonight it was the basket she wanted. As he set down the mug and accepted another handful of congratulations he spared a moment to glance at Lord Robert Cranach. Rob still sat on the blanket where most of the Sassenach had gathered, and he was conversing again with his cousin. Smug bastard. Well, he might have won—though Lachlan wasn’t yet ready to wager on that count—but he hadn’t won yet.
“I’m going up to the hoose,” he told Bear, who nodded at him.
No, he didn’t have an excuse for leaving the party to visit another man’s home, but luckily his friendship with the MacLawrys was deep enough that he didn’t require one. He had no idea what he would say, anyway; admitting he was off to ravish their sister—especially now that she’d nearly been handed over to someone else—would only see him tossed into the bonfire.
Without the crowd and the several fires surrounding him, the walk up the hill was surprisingly chilly. Not that he felt the cold. Not tonight. Not when a fierce young lass waited for him.
Cooper the butler had been given leave to attend the gathering, so it was one of the underfootmen who opened the front door for him. Other than nodding at the lad, Lachlan ignored him as he headed for the stairs. He had a feeling that finding his way into Rowena’s bedchamber would be a much easier proposition than escaping the house afterward, but he meant to take the risk.
Her door was shut. Lachlan rapped twice, softly, then opened the door and slipped inside. Before he could take a breath she was on him, her mouth molding against his, her hands digging into his shoulders and pulling at his tartan and shirt.
He put his arms around her waist, touching soft, warm skin. Saint Bridget, she was already naked. “I’m glad it was me, walked in here.”
With a breathless chuckle, she licked at his throat, then returned to his mouth again. “So am I.”
“Slow doon, lass,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her. “We’ve nae reason to hurry.”
“I want ye, Lachlan,” she returned, dropping his tartan to the floor. “I don’t know if ye’re good for me, but I want ye.”
Moving his hands to her shoulders, he held her a little away from him. “I am good fer ye, lass. And I dunnae mean this to be a handful of nights ye can look back on later and sigh aboot. These nights are only our first nights together, Rowena. Only our first.”
For a moment he worried that he’d just pushed her too hard, and that she would try to shove him back out the door rather than admit she might be trying to think of a way out of a marriage with Lord Rob. Then she sighed and closed on him again, pulling his shirt free from his kilt and sliding her hands up his chest beneath the material. “Convince me,” she breathed.
Oh, that he was quite willing to do. Once she’d yanked his shirt off over his head he unbuckled the saber and carefully set it aside, not wanting to alert anyone with its solid clank on the hard floor. Then he unwrapped his kilt and dropped it as well. He felt a bit foolish in his stockings and ghillie brogues, so he reached down to yank out the knots and then used one foot to bare the other.
As she reached up to catch his face and nibble on his ear, his eyes practically rolled back in his head. He’d hoped the dance would stir something in her—a pride, memories, realization—but lust was perfectly acceptable, too.
Turning, he pinned her against the wall, grabbing her wrists and holding her arms above her head as he devoured her mouth. She gyrated her hips, brushing against his cock, and he groaned. Whatever shyness she’d had last night, she’d clearly gotten past. Tonight she was a wildcat, pushing him to the very edge of control. He loved it.
Freeing her arms, he put his hands on her hips and lifted. “Put yer legs aboot me, my fierce lass,” he said in a low voice.
She did so, and dug her fingers into his shoulders. Lachlan lowered her over his own hips, impaling her against the wall. With a gasp she bit his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that Rowena was in his arms, around him. And he meant to claim her for his own. Forever.
Thrusting forward, he entered her hard and fast, her quick, moaning breaths as arousing as the rest of her. Outside the bagpipes had resumed, this time playing an old country song, “The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie.” He wasn’t so certain he wanted to hear a tune of unrequited love while he was inside Rowena, but he was grateful for anything that would keep the majority of the household outside in the meadow.
With another quick moaning breath she climaxed, and he slowed his movements as she shivered around him, clinging to his shoulders. Grinning, he kissed her sweet mouth. “Good God, ye feel fine to
me, lass,” he murmured, slipping his arms around her back to hold her and walking them over to her bed.
Still inside her, he set her onto her back and moved over her. Taking a breast into his mouth, he resumed his thrusts, slow and deep, in time with the motions of his tongue. The flex of her fingers, her obvious arousal and delight—it pushed him to the edge, and then beyond. With a low moan he climaxed, pressing against her as he came. He didn’t know if she realized it or not, but he deliberately hadn’t taken any precautions with her. Because he already knew that she would have his children, be his woman, whether she’d realized it yet, or not.
When he could breathe again he rolled onto his back, his heart stuttering until she turned on her side and curled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Every time she approached him, every time she initiated contact, it felt like a gift.
“How long had you lads been practicing that dance?” she asked, running her fingers in a lazy circle around his left breast.
“We did it once,” he returned. “We didnae have time fer more, and that’s a thing that once ye learn it, ye cannae ferget it.”
“I think you could forget it, if it didn’t mean anything to ye.”
He frowned. What did that mean? “It means someaught to me, Rowena.”
“I know. And it does to me, as well, surprisingly enough. I remember when you and Bear taught me to dance it.”
“Aye. The clans would be scandalized to know a wee lass danced the swords. But ye did it well, and ye knew what it meant.” He paused, considering. “Is that what ye were talking aboot? That ye fergot it?”
“No. I mean, I think it would take more than one practice for me to get it right, but then women don’t generally dance it. I … never mind.”
“Ah.”
She twisted her head to look up at him. “‘Ah,’ what?”
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid Page 18
