No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  Needing to shift the attention away from herself and Malcolm’s ridiculous announcement, Joan turned to Brienne.

  “Will ye come to McKenna Castle, Lady Brienne?” she asked.

  The abrupt change of subject brought on a rumbling of conversation from the men in the chamber, yet they quieted when Brienne spoke.

  “If my father allows it, then I shall accept Laird McKenna’s offer to travel there and do whatever he asks to aid him in finding the imposter.” She favored Joan with a shy smile. “And I wish ye and Sir Malcolm much happiness in yer marriage.”

  Joan held her breath as she waited for Laird MacPhearson’s answer. A visible sadness lined his weathered face as he gazed at his daughter. Finally, he nodded. “So be it.”

  Laird MacPhearson stood. He approached Malcolm, his arm outstretched. “I’m trusting ye to care fer her and the babe,” he said, his jaw flexing with emotion. “Dinnae fail me in yer duty.”

  Malcolm clasped Laird MacPhearson by the arm. He held tightly for a moment, then nodded.

  The low murmurs of discussion began again as those who had gathered filed out of the chamber. Joan kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet Malcolm’s gaze when he left. She hugged each of the MacPhearson women, stalling for time. When the room emptied, only she and her father remained.

  “Ye made me look the fool in front of the MacPhearsons and the McKennas,” Laird Armstrong roared with anger.

  Joan bit her lip in frustration. Why was he always so prepared to be disapproving of her? She had done naught but work hard and try to ease his burdens since she returned home. Yet he never appreciated any of her efforts and instead looked to find fault in everything.

  “I thought ye’d be pleased to settle the matter without bloodshed,” Joan replied, making her voice deliberately calm.

  “I was charged with resolving this feud, not ye!” He turned away from her and began pacing in agitation. “And yer betrothal to Malcolm McKenna. I’d not believe it unless I heard it with my own ears, directly from his lips. I’ve half a mind to refuse to allow it, but that would mean I’d lose the chance to be rid of ye.”

  Joan’s breath stuck in her throat. Her father never made any attempt to hide his feelings for her, yet his words hurt more than she could have imagined. Still, Joan hid that hurt, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain, of letting him know he possessed the power to wound her.

  She had intended to denounce the betrothal the moment the MacPhearsons departed, but hesitated at her father’s angry expression. Her mind spun in circles as she tried to find the words to explain it all without raising his ire further, then realized now was not the time.

  “We will speak of this later, when ye are not so angry,” she said.

  ’Twas the wrong thing to say. Laird Armstrong’s nostrils flared. He gripped her arm firmly, hard enough to be painful. A harsh look darkened his face. She could not help but compare it to the look of tenderness and regret Laird MacPhearson bestowed upon Brienne, and Joan felt another pang of sadness.

  She pulled away, heading for the door. He followed. She turned.

  “Dinnae ever tell me what to do,” he snapped, his cheeks flushed.

  His arm swung wide and backhanded Joan. The blow was so unexpected it caught her completely unaware, striking her jaw. She fell to the ground from the force of it, wiping the blood that trickled from her mouth with her fingers.

  Joan slowly rose to her feet. Never before had her father struck her, even when she was a young lass. She stared at him in astonishment, speechless at his lack of control.

  His eyes were remote and she realized no sense of family loyalty or connection existed between them. Whatever affection they might have shared when she was a child had long since vanished. She was an embarrassment and a burden to him and would remain so for as long as she drew breath.

  With an unsteady gait, Joan walked away, her heart bruised, her pride wounded, but her spirit, as ever, unbroken.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time the evening meal had started, Joan was calmer. Her father’s anger would cool—eventually. Until then, she needed to make herself scarce and stay out of his sight, a task made easier by the number of visitors still at the castle. As long as she made certain there was plenty of hot food and drink for the guests, she would barely be missed.

  After checking that all was as it should be with Cook, Joan wound her way through the halls toward her chamber. She would have Gertrude fetch a simple meal that she would eat in her room, then wait until complete darkness before venturing into the village to see Callum. Just the promise of her son’s sweet face and exuberant hugs gave Joan a much needed sense of peace that she was desperate to embrace.

  “I’ve been searching everywhere fer ye.”

  Malcolm. Joan’s heart tripped when she spied him coming toward her. Saints above, I’m not certain I’ve the strength to face him right now.

  Malcolm glanced down at the stained apron she wore over her gown and frowned. “Are ye going to change yer clothes before the meal? I’ll be pleased to wait fer ye.”

  “Thanks to ye, I’ll not be showing my face in the great hall until the clans have left,” Joan replied with a huff.

  She started up the staircase and he followed close behind.

  “Why?” he asked innocently.

  “Our betrothal.” Joan took a deep breath and somehow resisted the urge to turn and box his ears.

  They reached the landing and stood facing each other. Malcolm grinned, but then a flash of discomfort tightened his expression. “Aye, we need to discuss what occurred earlier.”

  “I’ll warrant that ye were in an unenviable position when Laird MacPhearson pressed ye to wed Brienne, but was that truly the best excuse ye could devise—marrying me?” Joan asked.

  He shrugged. “It seemed an inspired idea at the time.”

  “Och, well, not from my side of it.” She thrust open the door to her chamber and he followed her inside. “Did ye not consider the consequences fer me? It will be mortifying when the betrothal is broken,” she lamented. “Agnes will no doubt gloat fer days.”

  “The solution is obvious.” Malcolm drew himself up confidently. “We should, in truth, marry.”

  “Each other?” The tension and exhaustion of the past few hours boiled over and Joan began to giggle.

  “Aye.” Malcolm folded his arms across his chest as Joan succumbed to another fit of laughter. “I dinnae know why ye find the notion so amusing, Joan.”

  She snorted, then shrugged, unrepentant at her reaction. “I willnae be teased so mercilessly, Malcolm, though I confess to enjoying the jest.”

  Arms still folded, Malcolm leaned toward her. “I dinnae seek to amuse ye, Joan. It will insult the MacPhearsons greatly if we dinnae marry. It might even start a clan war and that’s the last thing any of us want. Ye need a husband to protect ye and yer son. I need a wife. A union between us is the best way to achieve a situation that will benefit us both.”

  He was serious! Another round of nervous giggles started, then quickly died on Joan’s lips. Of all the unsettling things that had transpired these past few days, this was by far the most shocking. “I fail to see how taking me fer a wife will be advantageous to ye.”

  He assessed her for a moment, then his lips curved into a sensual grin. “It will be my greatest pleasure to show ye, lass.”

  Joan froze. Desire shimmered in Malcolm’s eyes. Dark, provocative, intriguing, and strong enough to take her breath away. It frightened and repelled her and yet . . .

  Her memory flickered back to the first few months of her marriage, when the feel of Archibald’s hands upon her flesh had piqued her womanly curiosity. When she had foolishly told him of her feelings, he had declared her a wanton and the pleasant sensations had been replaced with brutality.

  “That is hardly an enticement,” she declared pointedly.

  She waited for his outburst, certain she had caused offense. Waited, too, for him to step forward and attempt to intimida
te her, to ridicule her, or worse, take what she had so adamantly rejected.

  Instead, he remained calm, with a thoughtful expression on his features. “I know that yer marriage to Fraser wasn’t a happy one,” he said.

  She let out a small, hollow laugh. “’Twas a nightmare. Archibald was cruel with both his words and his fists. My will is strong, my opinions difficult to keep to myself. He was determined to make me a meek, submissive wife and was greatly angered when he failed.”

  Malcolm unfolded his arms and moved closer. “Ye need never have a fear of speaking yer mind to me. I shall willingly make a solemn vow and pledge never to strike ye.”

  She raised her brow and leaned away from him. “No matter what the provocation?”

  “Aye.”

  His words did not comfort. “Ye answered too swiftly. It gives me cause to doubt yer sincerity,” she challenged.

  Malcolm reached out and caught her fingers, lacing them between his own. “’Tis nigh impossible to prove something that I willnae do,” he countered. “All that I can say is that the McKenna men dinnae beat their wives.”

  Joan shivered and wrestled her hand away. “Docile, obedient women dinnae anger their husbands.”

  Malcolm laughed. “’Tis clear that ye have never met my mother. My father tells her nearly every day that she is the boldest lass in all the Highlands. There’s nary a thought or opinion that remains silent once it comes into her head. Truth be told, she rules my father far more than he rules her.”

  Joan shook her head in disbelief. “The McKenna’s fierce temper is legendary.”

  “Aye, ’tis not an exaggeration either. The rafters shake when my father bellows. Yet my mother knows all his bluster and anger will never be turned toward her—or any other defenseless creature. ’Tis reserved for his enemies.” Malcolm’s expression gentled. “I understand yer reluctance to trust me, but I think there’s more to yer objections. Do ye find me distasteful? Repulsive?”

  Joan rested her hands on her hips. “I’ll not be extolling yer manly virtues, fer fear that yer head will swell, but we both know there isn’t a lass within a hundred miles who wouldn’t call ye handsome.”

  He favored her with a soft smirk. “Only a hundred?”

  Joan tried—and failed—to hold back another laugh. “Ye are a vain man, Malcolm McKenna. Perhaps even more so than I. Yet another reason that we would have a terrible marriage.”

  “Aye, we would bicker constantly over which one of us is the prettiest.” He smiled again, but then the mirth faded from his face and his eyes grew serious. “There’s more that ye’re not saying, Joan.”

  She hesitated. She was not inclined to share her secrets with anyone, woman or man, and was loath to start now. Oddly enough though, she was tempted.

  Did she dare tell him the truth? Speaking so frankly about the intimacy between a husband and wife was hardly proper. Yet she felt she owed him her honesty, even if her response shocked him.

  “I deplore having physical relations with a man.”

  Malcolm hissed in a quick breath. She raised her chin, trying to decipher his thoughts, but his expression turned bland.

  “Were there any others besides Fraser?”

  “Nay! I’d never truly kissed a man until my wedding day.”

  “Was it that bad?” Malcolm asked quietly.

  “Not at first. But later.” She shuddered at the memory. “He took great delight in forcing me, claiming me. I hated it.”

  “It would be very different with me. I will honor and respect ye and show ye that great pleasure can be found between a husband and wife.”

  Malcolm’s blue eyes darkened, tantalizing her with wondrous possibilities. She had heard other women talk about the joys and delights of the marriage bed, had seen the glow of love and devotion in their eyes.

  Was it possible that she could feel the same? About Malcolm? He was indeed a very handsome man, with a smile and a swagger that she could admire, if she allowed herself the luxury. Being near him wasn’t horrid. Truth be told, his nearness had the power to send a spark of excitement to her belly, though she quickly suppressed it.

  But what if she were wrong? Her eyes fell on his large, strong hands, then followed the muscles in his forearms up to his biceps. Clearly, he possessed the strength to hurt her—badly.

  What if he proved as harsh a man as Archibald? She had barely escaped the nightmare once; it seemed impossible that God would be so merciful a second time.

  “I cannae risk it,” she said flatly.

  His face fell and she felt a stab of regret at disappointing him. The emotion surprised and dismayed her, yet she was determined to ignore it—along with her fluttering pulse.

  Malcolm blew out a breath of frustration. “Ye need to be practical. If ye believe nothing else, ye should have faith that I’ll protect ye and yer son.”

  She knew that he was right. Her father would not provide the safety she and Callum needed, especially if he married Agnes. Joan would be forced to find another home for herself and her son. But marriage? To Malcolm?

  Nay, if she ever married again, it would have to be to a much older man, one who lacked the interest or ability to share her bed. Only then would she consent. Marriage to a young, virile man was out of the question, unless . . .

  Joan licked her dry lips. “I might consider becoming yer wife if we could reach some sort of understanding before we say our vows.”

  His body tensed warily. “What sort of understanding?”

  She knew what she was about to propose would be interpreted as an insult, but that didn’t prevent her from saying it.

  “I acknowledge that men have carnal needs and I know that I cannae fulfill them. If we married, I would not object if ye found yer pleasure with other, willing women.” The lines between his brow deepened. “As long as ye agreed to stay out of my bed,” she added hastily.

  Malcolm’s eyes darkened like thunderclouds and for a moment Joan feared she had gone too far. Men never liked being told nay, especially when it came to bed sport. They all believed they were irresistible to womankind.

  “I’m sorry that he hurt ye so fiercely, Joan. No woman deserves such treatment.” Malcolm stepped closer, capturing her wrist in a grip that was surprisingly gentle. “May ye take comfort in knowing that there is a special place in hell fer men of his ilk.”

  Malcolm’s measured response was puzzling. A trick? Joan had been fully prepared for outrage, censure, even condemnation, and instead she received kindness and compassion. Had she misjudged him?

  “Ye’ll consider my request?” she asked, her voice quavering with hope.

  He waited a long moment before slowly shaking his head. “Nay. The vows of marriage are sacred, including the pledge of fidelity. I dinnae take them lightly, nor toss them away when they are inconvenient. My wife will be the only woman that shares my bed, and if we are so blessed, will bear my children.”

  Her hopes plummeted and she let out a long sigh. She had not expected to feel such a crushing blow of disappointment. Joan turned her head, so he would not see. “Since ye refuse my condition, then the matter is settled.”

  “Is it settled?”

  “Aye,” she retorted, raising her chin. “There’s naught to say. That is, unless ye are going to spout a legion of flowery, empty promises in order to have yer way. Will ye promise to fill my days with happiness and my nights with bliss? Will ye see to my every comfort, grant my every wish, fulfill my secret longings? Will ye shower me with affection and devotion and vow to love me with yer whole heart and soul until ye die?”

  “I might. If ye do the same fer me.”

  She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Where had those ridiculous, girlish words come from? She had no idea nor could she fathom why she was unable to control the need to say them to him. ’Twas ludicrous.

  “I’m speaking nonsense. Forgive me.”

  His expression softened. “All women want to be wooed. There’ll be plenty of time fer it after we wed. I promise.” He l
eaned closer. “I’ve seen ye with yer son, Joan. If we marry, there will be other children.”

  His words cut straight to her heart. Callum was the one bright spot in her otherwise dark life. Just the thought of having another child brought a sense of longing that reached deep into Joan’s soul.

  “What of my mother’s madness?” she whispered, voicing a long held worry.

  “’Twas her own, brought on by greed. I dinnae fear it in ye, nor in any child ye bring into this world.”

  Joan’s heart wrenched. He had met each of her objections with calm acceptance, but the anxiety that dwelled inside her had too strong a hold.

  “I cannae marry ye,” she repeated. Her voice was determined, but reluctance had crept into her mind, causing her to feel an unsettled sense of confusion.

  “Then I request a boon from ye before we part,” he said solemnly. “A single kiss.”

  Nay! Without thought, the reply sprang to her lips. But she didn’t speak—yet—curious to see how far she could test him. “Why did ye ask, when ye simply could have taken what ye wanted?”

  “’Tis far more pleasurable when we both participate,” he answered.

  “I warn ye, a kiss from me will not be very enjoyable,” she cautioned.

  “The only way to know fer certain is to try.”

  His thumb moved slowly across her cheek, leaving a trail of warmth. It piqued her curiosity, though she forbade herself to be fooled by the fluttering in her stomach.

  “A single kiss,” she agreed, deciding it was the least she owed him.

  Malcolm smiled and his eyes gleamed down at her in a most disconcerting manner. Logic dictated that she fear him, and while part of her did, another part felt intrigued. Still, she faced him with her shoulders squared, unwilling to appear weak or cowed.

  “’Tis a kiss, Joan, not a punishment.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she snapped.

  His fingers touched her chin, raising her face so their eyes met. Her belly tightened as she braced herself for his assault. He loomed above her—broad chested and muscular, with an unmistakable superior strength.