When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  She pushed open the door now, fought with the wind to close it again behind her and latch it tight. Diarmid wouldn’t be back tonight, not with the storm, and Glenna to tend. She could stay here, be alone, think or weep as she chose to. She was shivering as she lit a candle, her teeth chattering, her body numb with cold. Only the tears coursing down her face were warm. She dashed them away. Enough water was falling this night.

  She lit a fire with shaking hands, added peat and driftwood until it caught, grew warm enough to dry her hair and her clothes. The walls creaked around her, and the door shook as the storm demanded entrance. She curled up in a blanket by the fire and tried to sleep.

  Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, foretelling nothing but doom.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Malcolm spent the night pacing the solar. He’d done more pacing in the weeks since Ronat washed up on his beach than he’d done in the whole of his life before that moment. He knew what he had to do, what he wanted to do. He was more sure of this than he’d been about anything else since he arrived here.

  He was in love with Ronat. He wanted to marry her.

  He’d lied to her, deceived her, and deflowered her, but he’d make it right. Images of her in his bed tormented him—her head thrown back with pleasure, the sounds of her soft cries as he loved her. He could smell her body on his hands, his clothes. He could still taste her. There were small stinging red moons on his shoulders where her fingernails had dug into his flesh as she came apart in his arms . . . He wanted nothing more than to go and find her, take her back to bed, and make love to her again and again.

  But first he had to tell her the truth. He should have done it weeks ago. It was only going to be harder now. Guilt gnawed on him with sharp teeth.

  At dawn, the storm eased, taking a breath, though the rain didn’t stop. Malcolm splashed his face with water, found a clean shirt, and donned his plaid.

  He went along the hall to the room Glenna occupied. Half the clan waited outside the closed door, their expressions mournful. Malcolm felt his heart climb into his throat. “Is she . . .” he began.

  “She lives,” William said. “More than that I canna say.”

  Malcolm waded through the crowd and knocked. Peggy opened the door. Inside the room, Diarmid was bending over Glenna’s small, still form, stroking back the tangled red hair from her pale face. The white linen bandage wrapped around her head matched the pallor of her skin.

  “Has she woken?” Malcolm asked. Peggy shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes.

  “She flinches when we touch her head, feels pain,” Peggy said. “’Tis a good sign. If there was blood in her brain, she would be too far gone to feel a thing.”

  “Come in, Laird,” Diarmid said, hearing Malcolm’s voice. “Glenna will live. She’s strong for such a wee thing. She needs rest and care, but in a few days she’ll be up and about again. Ye can go tell the clan, Peggy lass.”

  The young woman went out into the hall, and Malcolm watched through the open door as his clan crowded around her, eager to hear.

  They loved Glenna. Their relief was clear in their eyes. Beitris burst into tears, and William grinned. Catriona hugged Hugh and sobbed.

  He looked around for Ronat, sure she’d be here too, but she wasn’t.

  “Where’s Ronat?” he asked Peggy, but Peggy just shook her head.

  “Have you seen Ronat?” he asked Beitris.

  “Nay, Laird, not since last night.” She made a small sound of dismay. “She offered to tend to Maccus. Ye don’t suppose—” The clan growled, a low, menacing sound. But Malcolm knew the truth. Ronat had been with him last night, in his bed—at least until she’d fled from him, blinking back tears she hadn’t wanted him to see. Stupidly, he’d let her go . . .

  He strode along the hall to Cormag’s room, and the clan followed. He threw open the door. Maccus was fast asleep—and alone.

  Malcolm backed out of the room. His mother’s chamber was also empty, as was the solar and his own chamber. He stared at his rumpled bed, smelled the faint tang of sex in the air. Ronat’s dirk and the blue ribbon from her hair lay on the floor.

  Think. He had to think. Where would she go? Would she go to the waterfall in the rain? Was she waiting for him there? He had to find her, tell her the truth.

  He’d have no more secrets at Dunbronach.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The lowing of Diarmid’s cow woke Ronat as dawn broke through the window. The poor beast was no doubt unsettled by the storm and needed feeding and milking. Ronat forced herself to her feet. Her head ached, and her throat was sore, but she went out to tend the creature.

  “Madainn mhath, cow,” she said, bidding the beast good morning. “I see you survived the storm. As did I.” The cow regarded Ronat with bland interest over her shaggy shoulder and pulled against her halter.

  The wee lean-to had been damaged by the wind. Boards had been loosened and a few torn away entirely, letting in the light and rain. The water had flowed under the wall, and the poor cow was standing in a puddle.

  Ronat reached to pull down some hay from the rafters and carried it to the manger. The water had worked its way under that, too, making it rock unevenly. She glanced at the base, wondering if a rock might fix it for the time being . . .

  Her heart stopped when she saw the blue and green of the plaid under the box.

  A MacLeod plaid.

  She knew it at once, and she knew it belonged to her. She felt a flash of memory hit her. She saw her father’s face, her sisters, her home. Glen Iolair. She put a hand to her forehead, felt pain. She remembered the gathering and Colin and John MacKay. She remembered falling from the ship . . . She gasped and shivered, as if the cold water were closing over her again. She fell to her knees, her legs refusing to hold her, and fought to breathe. She reached out, clawed the mud and straw away, and pulled the wet length of plaid free. She ran her hand over the familiar sett, now stiff with sand and salt.

  And remembered exactly who she was.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Ronat wasn’t at the waterfall.

  Malcolm slicked the rain from his face and hair and looked around, his gut tight with worry. The storm had been fierce . . .

  He climbed to the top of the falls, looked out over the whole of Dunbronach. He saw the castle on the headland; the moody, gray sea; the green hills. He saw the sea maiden’s island and Maccus’s boat, pulled up on the beach next to his father’s vessel, but there was no sign of Ronat.

  He followed the rain-swollen burn down the hill, his boots sliding on the wet grass.

  He began to run along the beach, scanning the waves, afraid now. He reached the place he’d found her weeks ago, half-drowned, injured, tangled in seaweed. The seals still watched him warily, but she wasn’t there. He ran on.

  He found her sitting in front of Diarmid’s hut, staring out at the sea. He felt a lift of joy and relief in his breast at the sight of her.

  “Ronat!” He called her name, and she turned her head to look at him. He ran toward her, but she didn’t rise to greet him. Her features stayed flat and empty as he approached.

  Then he saw the plaid in her lap, the damned MacLeod plaid, and he stopped, his breath harsh in his throat.

  She remembered.

  He saw it in her eyes, read betrayal and sorrow. Anger too.

  “It’s not Ronat. My name is Marcail MacLeod. I’m your enemy—or my father is—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  What could he say? He felt a lump in his throat. He nodded.

  The MacLeod plaid was unwearable, and the wind was cold, her gown wet. He went inside, took a plaid from Diarmid’s bed, and returned to drape it over her shoulders. She shook it off, let it drop to the ground.

  “Ronat,” he began, but the terrible look in her eyes warned him back.

  “Marcail. My name is Marcail.”

  He swallowed, practiced it in his mind. It suited her. But so did Ronat . . .

  “You knew,” she said ag
ain, the accusation as sharp as the thrust of a dirk. “You were the one who found me, the one who hid my plaid here, in Diarmid’s byre. You knew, and you didn’t tell me. Just how many secrets are you keeping, Malcolm? Your conscience must be black with them.”

  Guilt made his gut ache. “You were injured. I thought—”

  Her eyes flared. “Oh, I know what you thought. You thought I might die, and my father—the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair—would come here and kill you for it.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, I didn’t think that.”

  She arched one brow in disbelief. Her pride was clear in her gray eyes, and she held the ruined, dirty plaid tight in her arms like a shield.

  “I worried what my clan might do to you if they knew you were a MacLeod. They’re kind and reasonable, but not about that. It’s the one rule they have, you see, and—” He was babbling. He took a breath. “You were injured,” he said again, as if it was enough to explain his actions. “I was afraid they’d cast you back into the sea. The . . . deception . . . was against them, not you.”

  The ferocity in her eyes didn’t ease one bit. “But it amounts to the same thing. I had a right to know, but you didn’t tell me. Not when I woke, not when you kissed me, or—” He watched the hot blood rise in her cheeks. She blinked back tears, dashed them away with the back of her hand when they fell anyway. “Did you truly think I’d harm you, or the people here? You weren’t being kind, staying with me at night, sleeping in a chair. You were my guard. I’m not a guest—I’m a prisoner.” She folded her arms over her wet gown. “Did you intend to demand a ransom for me?”

  Shame made him sweat, despite his wet clothes. “No, Ronat, no,” he managed to say. He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to stay him. She fumbled in her sleeve for her dirk, but it wasn’t there. It was in his chamber, on the floor where it had fallen last night.

  “My name is Marcail MacLeod!” she shouted at him. “Don’t come near me, MacDonald!”

  He stood still, pleaded with his eyes. “I thought—at first—if you knew who you were, you’d be afraid of us, or afraid of your own memories. I didn’t want that. I didn’t know how you’d come to be in the water. And I thought if my clan knew—Fergus, or William, or even Glenna—that they’d harm you. But instead they loved you. You gave them hope and joy, and they need that. I hadn’t seen one of them even smile before you came. They were in mourning, felt terrible despair that they had lived when the people they loved had perished. They couldn’t save them, no matter how they tried. But they could save you, and they did. Not one of them knew the truth. Only me.”

  “And now?” she asked. “What will they do when they find out?”

  He didn’t answer, couldn’t, not until he’d spoken to them, told them he meant to keep Ronat—Marcail—and wed her, MacLeod or no. If she’d have him . . .

  “Just like Glenna,” she said, her lips tight. “You know the truth but you will not tell. It was my right to know, Malcolm. I have been heartbroken not knowing who I am, where I came from, thinking you didn’t want me because I was damaged. I thought you were different, that I could trust you, but you’re no different than Colin, or John MacKay, or any other lying bastard.”

  He frowned. Who were Colin and John MacKay? Her teeth were chattering. “You’re a liar, Malcolm MacDonald. A man without honor or kindness. You’re a liar.”

  There were tears in her eyes, and he stepped toward her again, but she held up her sodden plaid like a talisman, shook it at him, warning him back, the barrier between them irrevocably clear. He would never touch her again, never kiss her, never see her smile. She was trembling with fury and pride as much as cold. There was pain in her eyes as well. He’d crushed her, broken her heart. His own heart sank in his breast.

  “I’ll take you home to your kin,” he said. “I’ll return you to Glen Iolair.”

  She tossed her head, her eyes alight with anger. “You can’t. My father would kill you on sight.” He wondered if she’d do anything to stop his murder. He swallowed hard.

  “Still, I will take you,” he said. The woman he knew was not bloodthirsty—she was kind and gentle, she cared for others, loved with her whole heart.

  She shut her eyes. “Go back to your castle, or to Edinburgh if you will, but leave me alone, Laird MacDonald. You’ve had all I’m willing to give. Touch me now and you’ll be no better than Maccus.”

  He clenched his hands into fists by his sides, frustrated and lost. How had he managed to misjudge her so badly? She was strong and brave. He’d seen only her injuries. “I can’t leave you alone. Come back with me. You need dry clothes, food, sleep.”

  “Sleep in the stronghold of my enemy? No, Malcolm Ban, get you gone.”

  “I won’t tell anyone, Ronat—”

  “Marcail!” She snapped the reminder at him, pride visible in every line of her body.

  “Marcail.” It was even prettier spoken aloud. He held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

  She turned away from him. “Leave me alone. You’ve done enough harm.”

  Malcolm considered his options. The lawyerly part of him wanted to reason with her, explain. But she wasn’t ready to listen.

  The male part of him wanted to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her back to his castle. But she’d fight him if he tried, and she’d never forgive him.

  Or, he could leave her here, go back and gather the elders, tell them he meant to marry her, a MacLeod, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to stop him. He’d send Beitris with dry clothes and food, and return when Marcail was calmer. She’d be safe in Diarmid’s hut. And when he returned, he’d propose to her, marry her by Highland handfasting right here on the sands. It was a good plan, a civilized one.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, and turned and began to walk back toward the castle, gritting his teeth against the wind, against the wrongness of leaving her alone, confused and hurt.

  You’re a liar, Malcolm MacDonald. A man without honor or kindness . . . He felt every word of her accusation like the lash of a whip across his flesh. Worst of all, it was entirely true.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Marcail stared out at the sea through a veil of tears. She was cold, hungry, and tired. So very, very tired. She could not stay at Dunbronach, among her enemies. It was hard to think of Dougal or Beitris or Lochie as her enemies, but they were.

  And surely her father and sisters were waiting for her, worried sick. She remembered the night she’d jumped off John MacKay’s ship clearly now. Had he even bothered to look for her? What had he told her father? She dashed the tears away, wrapped her ruined plaid around her shoulders. The stiff cloth offered little comfort and even less warmth. She took it off again, and held it in her arms instead. Her body ached, and her heart was in tatters.

  She’d loved Malcolm. Even now, with her heart broken inside her. She pushed the thought away. How could she love someone who had betrayed her? She’d thought he was honest, kind, and brave, willing to do anything to protect his clan and her. Now she could see he was just like every other man she’d ever known. She hugged the plaid tighter, longing for home.

  She stared out across the sea, past the island. Her father’s lands lay north and east of here, across the water. It was much, much too far to swim, and even further to walk.

  “Good day, sweet Ronat.”

  She turned to tell the speaker that her name was Marcail and came face-to-face with Maccus. The stink of dried blood, sweat, and whisky overwhelmed the scent of the sea as he came closer. He caught sight of her plaid, grabbed a fold of it in his hand, and his leer changed to a frown. She held tight to it, unwilling to give it up.

  “Just what have we here? A MacLeod plaid? Now where the devil did you get that?”

  Later, she’d realize she should have guarded her tongue, should have stopped to think. Instead, she raised her chin and tried to pull free. “From my father, the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair,” she said with all the pride she could summon. But Macc
us didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, scanned her face.

  “Well, well. How did the daughter of Donal MacLeod come to be here at Dunbronach? Did my cousin steal ye?”

  She’d come by ship . . . Maccus had a boat. He could take her home.

  “Yes, he stole me,” she said, raising her chin. “My father will pay a ransom for my safe return.”

  He pursed his battered lips. “Take ye back to Glen Iolair? It would be madness for a MacDonald to go there.”

  She’d heard the tales all her life, about the evil, barbaric MacDonalds of Dunbronach. Every MacLeod swore to do harm to any MacDonald he found, or give up his own life in the attempt. She thought of wee Glenna and Beitris, blind Diarmid and gentle Dougal. Would her father kill them for the sake of the plaid they wore? “My father is a fair man, honorable and kind . . .” But that meant nothing to Maccus, who was none of those things. “My father’s a rich man,” she said.

  That made Maccus’s black eyes flicker with interest. He put a hand to his chin, winced when it touched a bruise, and dropped it again. “I could risk it. It might be as ye say, that I’d come away with a fortune. Or it might be that Donal MacLeod would cut my throat and toss my corpse to his dogs.” His eyes dropped, fixed on her breasts, and she felt dread crowd out hope. “Or I could steal ye from Malcolm instead, take ye for my own. You’re a rare beauty.”

  Fear sizzled through her. “My father won’t pay a reward if I’ve been abused,” she protested, but he laughed, the sound low and ugly.