by Cathy MacRae
“My lady.” Ryan next slid his gaze to Gilda who stared straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. A moment of silence passed, then Gilda jerked. Had her mother nudged her beneath the table?
Gilda’s mouth barely moved. “The-pleasure-is-mine-I’m-sure.”
This time Ryan couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips at Gilda’s rebellious attempt at civility. He bowed his head briefly.
“Ladies.”
Lady Macrory and the laird dismissed him with a short nod. Gilda bit her lip.
Pivoting on his heel, he crossed the room to Conn’s side.
“Well, did I not tell ye? And ye thought I was daft.” Conn snorted in vindicated mockery. Ryan ignored him and reached for a mug sitting on a tray at the end of the table. He took a fortifying gulp of ale, pleased to find it not watered down. With a nonchalant gesture, he half-turned to view the laird’s table and caught a glimpse of burnished red hair as Gilda vanished into the recesses of the back hall.
He clamped a hand on Conn’s shoulder as he shoved the mug back onto its tray, paying no heed to the ale sloshing over the side. “Stay here.”
“Why?”
Ryan spared his friend an impatient look. “We arrived together. If the laird looks up and sees ye, he may presume I am nearby.”
“Are ye not?”
“Nae.”
“Where are ye going?”
“To find Gilda.”
* * *
Gilda slipped past the guards posted behind the laird’s table and into the back of the hall. She mingled with those busy trundling food and empty platters to and from the kitchen. Her midnight blue gown sparkled with silver embroidery at the low, square neckline and full, belled sleeves, making it difficult for her to blend in with the servants or be of any use in the kitchen where she sought to hide.
She cast a hurried glance over her shoulder and spied a dark-haired young man pushing through the throng behind her. Her heart quickened. Ryan had seen her. Darting to her right, Gilda slipped into the kitchen where organized chaos reigned. Cook directed her perfectly ordered dinner, far too busy to pay attention to someone unable to assist.
Gilda rushed around the edge of the room, managing to make it to the door on the far side of the room before an extended arm effectively blocked her path.
Ryan’s amber gaze met her furious look, but he did not flinch. Standing close, much too close, his hand on the door frame just above her head, he kept her from moving away.
“Remove yerself, sir.”
“Gilda, I would talk to ye.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Most lasses like talking to me.”
Gilda nearly choked. “You arrogant, presumptuous…”
“Och, Gilda, ye know I only tease ye. Let us go somewhere we can talk.”
“I dinnae wish to go anywhere with ye.”
Ryan ducked his head close and whispered, “Ye also dinnae want to create a scene, do ye?”
Gilda peered surreptitiously around the room. Servants’ gazes were beginning to turn her way.
He grasped her hand and tucked it over his arm before she knew what he was doing and led her outside into the garden. Gilda took two steps past the door with him before she snatched her hand away, fully intending on returning to the kitchen.
Ryan smoothly snagged her other hand as she whirled, using her momentum to spin her back around, drawing her close.
“Temper, temper,” he chided in her ear.
Gilda stiffened at his words. “I dinnae wish to walk with ye.” She raised mutinous eyes to his.
He chuckled. “Ye are marvelous, lass. Let us call a truce.”
“Are we at war?”
“I believe we have been at war since we met. Come walk with me. I promise to behave.”
Lifting a brow in disbelief, Gilda at last gave a brief nod. “Follow me.”
* * *
Surprised at her change of heart, Ryan followed Gilda deeper into the garden where moonlight filtered through the leaves and formed intricate patterns on the ground. A thousand stars sparkled against a velvet night sky, but he had eyes only for Gilda.
Her hair, bound by a narrow silver band at her crown, spilled across her shoulders and down her back, sparking fire and gold where the filtered moonlight touched it. Heavy curls swayed like a living thing with each step and Ryan’s skin tingled with the desire to run his hands through the molten strands.
Crossing to a low wooden bench encircling an ancient oak tree, Gilda at last came to a stop and faced him, her expression unreadable. Ryan wondered if she regretted the knowledge of who they were as much as he did.
“Ryan.” Gilda laid a flattened palm against his chest to halt his advance. Unexplainable sparks flew between them, and she dropped her hand to press it against her skirt, casting a startled gaze at him. Ryan stifled the urge to rub the stinging sensation lingering on his skin.
Gilda cleared her throat. “Ryan. We cannae meet again. I dinnae know who ye were, but even so, ’twas wrong for us to expect to see each other again.” Her forthright gaze challenged him.
“Did ye expect to see me again? It seemed to me ye had no intention of it.”
Even in the moonlight, Ryan saw the deepening shade on her cheeks and knew she blushed.
She lifted her chin. “Ye ogled my legs!”
Ryan nodded his head in agreement. “Ye have verra pretty legs.”
Gilda drew back with a hiss of breath. “Ye are a rogue, Ryan Macraig!”
“We have already agreed on this, aye?”
“This meeting tonight ’twas for the clansmen to decide what to do about the pirates, not for ye to seek me out in my home.” Gilda crossed her arms beneath her breasts, shoving them to the squared neckline.
Ryan mumbled the first response that came to his suddenly awkward tongue. “I dinnae know ye would be here.” His tone remained reasonable even as he fought the dryness in his mouth.
“Dinnae stare at me like that.” Gilda dropped her hands as she spun away, and Ryan’s concentration returned with a snap.
“I dinnae know how to act around ye, Gilda Macrory. I know our parents are nae likely to agree for us to meet, but I am willing to ask. To do this right.”
Gilda slowly turned, lifting her gaze to his. “To do what right?”
“To talk to ye. Listen to ye laugh. Watch yer eyes change color when I vex ye.”
Gilda’s quick grin told him he’d scored a point and he smiled. “I am good at vexing ye, aye?”
“Aye.” Her expression remained puzzled. “Do ye like to be around me? Not just to ogle my legs?”
This time Ryan laughed. “I will ogle yer legs any chance I get. I cannae lie to ye. But, aye. I like being around ye.”
Gilda gave him a thoughtful look before strolling to the circular wooden bench, lifting her skirts slightly as she climbed onto its wooden seat. Offering a look from beneath her lashes, she dropped the midnight fabric over her ankles and stepped along the boards, hands outstretched for balance. At the curve of the bench, she grabbed a low limb in a practiced move and swung about.
The maneuver caught Ryan off-guard and, thinking she fell, he lunged forward only to draw to an abrupt halt as she gracefully recovered her footing, and he realized she was quite at home climbing the ancient oak.
Ryan leaned a shoulder against a slender rowan tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye are naught but a well-dressed hoyden.”
Gilda tossed a lofty glare over her shoulder and continued her circuit of the tree. “I am quite unlikely to fall, so ye can stop looking at me so fiercely.”
He lost sight of her on the far side of the enormous tree trunk, but refused to rise to the bait. He would wait for her.
A thump and muffled cry startled him.
“Damn!”
With a start, Ryan pushed away from the rowan tree and was at Gilda’s side in an instant. She half-crouched on the ground, her slippered heel caught in the hem of her gown. Shooting him a quick glance, she fr
owned as she gave her skirt a final tug. She straightened, smoothing her features into a serene look.
Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Did ye fall?”
Gilda lifted an eyebrow in indignation. “Certainly not. I hopped down and slipped on the damp grass.”
He let out a sigh. “I believe ye vex me, too, Gilda Macrory.”
“Be that as it may…”
A brisk wind tossed her hair and interrupted her words. She raised a hand to wipe the billowing strands from her face, catching at the silver band threatening to slip from her head. The wind redoubled its efforts, lifting the hem of her gown. With a gasp, Gilda shoved the fabric down.
Ryan stepped close, blocking the churning wind, and Gilda gave him a grateful look. For a moment neither spoke. Ryan leaned closer.
* * *
Dried leaves scurried across the garden, but Gilda was oblivious to their patter. She was sheltered and warm, overly warm in fact, but it was a sensation she’d only experienced near Ryan and it left her head as airy as though she’d drunk too much wine. Perhaps she should pull back, seek a way out of this Macraig man’s spell, but her limbs would not obey her, and she simply smiled.
Ryan bent closer, the scar across his cheek a dark stripe in the moonlight. Gilda lightly touched its length. “Ye’ve no’ been tilting at bears again, have ye?”
Ryan grinned. “I leave the wild animals to the red-haired Macrory lass who tames them.”
As Gilda’s gaze slid from the scar to Ryan’s amber eyes, her hand stilled against his cheek. “Me?”
“Aye. I saw ye tame a wolf. It clenched my heart to see ye do it.”
“Why did it clench yer heart?” Gilda’s fingers drifted to his chest, twitching the pleats in his plaide over the spot in question.
“Ye are special, and I dinnae want to see ye hurt.”
Her heart gave a lurch. “What is special about me?” Her voice slipped past her lips, scarcely above a whisper.
Ryan lowered his head. “Yer silver eyes.”
His breath was warm on her face and Gilda’s lashes fluttered. She felt his mouth gently touch her eyelids, one and then the other, and she drew back, startled. Her eyes widened as she met Ryan’s slow smile. Her insides churned.
Ryan trailed his fingertips over her cheek. “They are verra special. They tell me what ye are thinking.”
“What…what am I thinking now?”
“That ye would like me to kiss ye again.”
Gilda wanted to deny it, but lying had never been her strong suit. She’d relied on charm and wit to avoid trouble most of her life, and now, when she most wanted to tell him she certainly did not want him to kiss her again, knowing she shouldn’t allow it, she couldn’t form the words.
His gaze lingered on hers then dropped to her mouth—and Gilda melted.
Ryan’s arm slid around her waist as she sagged against him. She lifted her face, waiting for his lips to press against hers. The suspense built unbearably and her heart pounded in her chest.
And then, Ryan kissed her.
* * *
“Ye were missed,” Conn hissed between clenched teeth as Ryan scooted onto the bench beside him.
Ryan leaned his elbows on his thighs, and peered past Conn. His father sat a few feet away, and though he stared straight ahead, Ryan rather suspected his father knew he was there.
“What did ye say?”
“That yer head was botherin’ ye.” Conn turned slightly. “’Twas the truth. Yer head has been addled since ye met the lass.”
“My thanks.” Ryan gave a low snort.
The Macrory laird stood before them, extolling the ravages the pirates laid to the coastline. Ryan’s attention wandered. Pirates always pillaged coastal villages. The Macraigs would be glad for the alliance to help keep the pirates at bay until they were either killed or convinced to find easier game elsewhere.
“The MacEwen’s nephew, Acair, has rallied the scattered clan,” the Macrory stated. “He has no fear of retaliation or war. He encourages us to do battle with him.”
Laird Macraig rose to his feet. “What drives Acair to be so bold?”
“He calls it revenge.”
A murmur arose from the crowd. Ryan swung his gaze around, wondering what he’d just missed.
His father took a step forward and all eyes swiveled to him. “Revenge for what?”
Laird Macrory’s gaze locked on the Macraig laird, and Ryan felt hostility spark between the two men. He sat up straight and his hand drifted to his empty scabbard before he remembered he’d left his sword and other weapons at the door.
“His uncle’s death.”
“Then it has nothing to do with us. Only ye.”
“He has pillaged up and down the coast,” the Macrory pointed out. “He uses his claim of revenge to bind his scattered clansmen together.”
The Macraig snorted. “So, if ye were dead, his lust for revenge would be satisfied and the problem would go away for the rest of us?”
Harsh voices spilled around Ryan as he gaped in disbelief at his sire.
What the hell is he doing? Ryan cut his eyes to Conn who shrugged, frank curiosity in his expression.
“I thought ye said ye werenae at war with the Macrorys?” his friend asked.
Ryan shook his head, staring at the man he scarcely knew. Surely, his father wasn’t about to decline the offer of help? Any time now the man would nod and give apology for such a brash statement. Tense moments passed as the two lairds glared at each other and speculation charged about the room.
With a feeling of doom, Ryan sighed. “We soon will be.”
Chapter 7
Wooden benches scraped across the stone and tumbled noisily to the floor as men erupted to their feet. Ryan rose swiftly to his father’s side. His abrupt movement brought him directly in line with the enraged Macrory laird’s sight, but it couldn’t be helped. It was too late now to hope to gain the man’s approval where Gilda was concerned. Ryan’s best tactic was to support his father until he could somehow understand what the hell his sire was up to and perhaps minimize the damage between the clans.
Laird Macrory fought visibly to bring his anger under control. Jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with each furious breath, he raised a hand for silence. His captain, a large, burly man who’d probably never been gainsaid since acquiring his impressive height, stepped to the laird’s shoulder, lending support.
Slowly, the room retreated beneath their demanding glares. Ryan released a deep breath of relief and offered a quick prayer of thanks. Around him men righted benches and reclaimed their seats. Ryan longed to take his own seat and listen to what the Macrory laird had to say, but his father remained standing, chin jutted outward in defiance. Short of tugging his sleeve to encourage him to sit, hoping for cooperation he wasn’t likely to get, Ryan had no choice but to remain at his side.
“’Tis well known ye are an outsider, Laird Macrory.” Disdain colored Laird Macraig’s voice. “’Twas a ruinous day a Scott laid claim to Macrory land. A man who gave up his own clan to rule another for the king.”
“I have always been loyal to the crown, and the Macrory people are kin. We dinnae share a name when I arrived here, ’tis true, but I am proud to be called Macrory.”
A murmur swept the crowd again. Heads nodded in approval. Then again, more than half the men in the room were Macrorys, and all apparently quite loyal to their laird. Ryan’s blood quickened. Were they to bring the old feud into the open?
His father took a half-step forward. “Ye had no real claim to this land or clan.”
Laird Macrory’s eyes flashed. “The king sent me here at the auld laird’s request.”
“We would have done better without ye here. I would have married the daughter and forged a strong bond between the clans.”
“The auld laird had his reasons for denying yer offer, as ye well know. And Scaurness has prospered these past years even with an outsider at its head.”
Tension bristled around the room. Ryan’s bloo
d ran cold at the animosity between the two lairds. Murmurs rose in the room like the buzz of angry bees.
“Enough!”
Heads swiveled at the new voice. A heavy-set man with a bull-like neck climbed to his feet. Torchlight glinted from his partially bald pate above a retreating hairline, and thick tufts of red hair peeked from the neckline of his leine. With a glare from beneath bushy brows for both the Macrory and Macraig lairds, he turned to his host.
“I dinnae come here to listen to the twa’ of ye fight over something long since done. The Maclellans have always profited from our alliance with the Macrorys. If the MacEwens are again raiding our shores to avenge such nonsense as young Acair speaks, then we will band with Laird Macrory to see it ended.” Laird Maclellan turned a pointed look on The Macraig. “Whether ye are with us or not.”
Laird Macraig did not break his stare from Ranald Macrory’s face. The animosity between the two men was palpable and Ryan’s throat went dry as he awaited his sire’s next move.
Drawing himself up to a regal height, the Macraig spat, “We willnae be a part of an alliance with a bastard Macrory.” With a swish of his plaide, he turned and left the room, men parting quickly to accommodate him.
From the corner of his eye, Ryan caught a glimpse of burnished red hair and wide grey eyes as Gilda watched him from the shelter of a wide pillar on the edge of the hall.
* * *
Gilda stared in disbelief as Ryan’s gaze met hers and his step did not falter. How could he simply walk away? The plaide draped across his shoulder swayed with each stride and her skin twitched to remember the fine texture of the wool she’d pleated beneath her fingers as he’d kissed her.
The Macraigs disappeared through the double doors of the great hall and into the night. Shouts in the bailey as they called for their horses sounded loud against the stunned silence of the hall. The great doors closed.
Gilda looked over her shoulder. The Maclellan laird remained standing, arms crossed above his broad girth, feet planted wide, as though expecting further challenge. Light from the candles shone on his forbidding visage, and Gilda shivered. The menace radiating from the laird could not be mistaken. She would not like to be the man—or woman—who came against him.
