When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1)

by Julie Johnstone

  “Nay,” he replied and stepped closer to her. She subtly shifted away from him.

  Iain glanced at Angus, who shook his head, and then Rory Mac, who simply shrugged. It seemed the best thing to do was continue on their journey. Even if he could think of the right words to comfort her, he’d not say them with Angus and Rory Mac listening. “We’ll depart now, unless ye need a moment.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her voice tired, even slightly sad.

  Once he had settled behind her and the horses started toward the MacLean’s hold, Iain thought about Marion and why she continually put herself at risk to defend him when he’d told her not to. Did she think she had to prove her worth? He suspected it was a possibility, given that her father likely made her feel insufficient. He wanted to ask her about her life in England, but he’d rather be able to see her face and expressions in case she tried to conceal the worst from him. Yet, he wanted to let her know he was thinking of her and that he would make it clear to his clan that she was important to him.

  “When we get to my home, I’ll have a bedchamber made for ye next to mine.”

  She turned around sharply, almost toppling herself. He had to grab hold of her arm to keep her on the horse and turn her back around. “You’re giving me my own bedchamber?”

  He could hear the shock in her voice. He had to hide his sudden grin because he was that pleased that having a grand bedchamber made her happy, even though she’d sleep in his every night. He knew it was not the custom, but he personally thought a man not sleeping with his wife was foolish. “I am. And ye can make it grand. It will be the grandest room in the castle.”

  “Oh, Iain, thank you! I, well—”

  He thought he heard her sniff.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being so considerate and thinking of me. Will it be acceptable for me to alter Catriona’s bedchamber, though? If not, I can leave it or take a different room—one less grand.”

  Talking of Catriona with Marion was not what he had wished, but he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, as if she were taking something that had belonged to Catriona. “It will be fine. Catriona did nae have her own bedchamber. She shared mine.”

  Marion cocked her head to the side. “You never offered her one?” The confusion was evident in her voice.

  “Nay. I preferred she sleep with me, and she thought it was silly to have a chamber she’d never use.”

  Marion hunched her shoulders forward. “I see,” she responded in a small voice that made him frown. “Have I upset ye?”

  “No,” she immediately responded, her reply snappish. “I’m simply tired from last night.”

  Guilt for letting himself act so freely and take her with such abandon overcame him. “I’ll nae bed ye tonight,” he proposed reluctantly.

  “Please stop talking,” she said. Her tone was not an order but more a plea.

  Perhaps his wife was shy about bed talk. Well, he’d not say another word about last night, then. The problem was, with her pressed between his thighs on the saddle, all he could think about was last night and how she had felt in his arms. But instead of saying something else that might embarrass her further, he said nothing.

  Several hours later, Marion shivered as she scrutinized the cloudy gray sky, and when Iain pulled her against his chest and wrapped an arm around her waist, she didn’t try to move away or protest. Her desire not to freeze to death overrode her hurt and anger at herself for the moment.

  She bit her lip as her vision blurred with the threat of tears. She blinked, a few trickled out of her eyes. She prayed they’d not hit Iain’s hand. She didn’t want him to know she was upset by his earlier words that his first wife, Catriona, could not be supplanted. Of course she couldn’t. It wasn’t his feeling that way that was upsetting, though. It was that there was never going to be a place in his heart for her. He’d told her it was so, but hope had started to grow with his praises and the way he watched over her. And then last night…

  The things he’d done to her and the way he’d made her feel… Well, she’d thought it was the beginning of something special, that a connection had been forged between them. She’d even foolishly gone to sleep with hopes that she may one day have a piece of his heart. But she’d never have his heart. His desire was all he was willing to give of himself.

  And it was made worse knowing she could not even say he just wasn’t a sharing and loving man. Obviously, he had been—with Catriona. She had shared his bed. Soon his whole clan would know that he didn’t care for Marion enough to allow her to do the same. It was humiliating and hurtful. She felt too much like the child who had always tried to do everything to please her father to gain his love but had never been enough. She simply refused to exhaust herself trying to gain Iain’s love when it was clear he had no intention of ever giving it.

  She had to be stronger and colder; she could not hope for something that would never be. When he made her feel warm with a compliment or a touch, she needed to remind herself it was merely lust and would never be more. She could not allow herself to lower her defenses. He was like a handsome conqueror who could storm her heart and take it if she were not very careful, and she knew too well the heartbreak of wanting love from someone who was not capable of giving it.

  Iain squeezed her a bit tighter in his arms, and his fingers fanned across her belly, gently rubbing as if he knew her thoughts. It was so typical of a man to want to take from a woman but not give in return. Marion held onto this thought and let it fuel her anger. He wanted to take his pleasure but give nothing back. Her cheeks heated at the memory of the way he’d lavished kisses on the most sensitive part of her body.

  She worried her lip as she thought. She had to confess that he’d given her pleasure and had seemed to love doing it.

  He was giving her protection. He was quick to keep her safe and care for her. Her heart tugged remembering how he’d come to her rescue with Froste, then at her father’s castle, then again at the river. So he’d give his life for her but not his love to her? It was a depressing thought and one that, along with her aching body, exhausted her. She had no idea what to do besides try not to allow herself to be hurt too much by him. The best way she knew to do that was to keep herself away from him, emotionally and physically, as much as possible.

  With that thought in her head, she braced herself for the cold, and shifted slightly forward. But within moments, her teeth were chattering. Within an hour, being cold had so exhausted her that she could no longer keep her eyes open. She closed them and allowed her body to sway with the cantering of the horse.

  Eight

  Iain hadn’t realized Marion had fallen asleep until she suddenly slumped forward. He caught her and gently leaned her against his chest. With her head resting against him, he tightened his hold around her waist, feeling each deep breath she took.

  He could not resist pressing his lips to her head and inhaling her fragrant scent. She stirred in her sleep, and wiggled her bottom, immediately making him hard. He clenched his teeth.

  His need for her had grown with each hour she rode between his thighs. Why had he made that foolish offer not to bed her tonight? Sometimes the best thing for sore muscles was to use them again. He immediately shoved the greedy thought away. He suspected that idea did not hold true for the soreness of losing one’s innocence. As he held her close, her fragrant flowery smell surrounding him, her soft body languid in his arms, and her silky hair blowing against his face, that same fierce need to keep her from any harm rose in him.

  If Alex was not such a good friend, Iain would forego the MacLean hold and head directly home. He had an uneasy feeling about stopping at Alex’s. While what Rory Mac had said about Alex was true—women did seem to find him irresistible—that wasn’t what was making Iain nervous. He trusted Alex, and he wasn’t worried that Marion would be untrue. He knew her well enough now to discern she was honorable. It was Alex’s men that made Iain tense. They were known for their violent ways, which was helpful in wartime b
ut not when it came to women. They were not going to be able to resist staring at Marion with desire, and that was going to make him angry. He needed to show the men immediately that Marion belonged to him, and he’d not abide any man looking at her with lust.

  These thoughts were still in Iain’s head as he led them up the winding trail to Alex’s hold. He expected to encounter guards at the main entrance to the castle grounds, but as Iain and his kin curved around a bend, a large, loud group of men on horseback came out of the woods. All laughter and talking stopped when the men saw them.

  Rory Mac brought his horse up to the side of Iain’s as the men approached, and Angus, with Neil sitting in front of him, came to flank Iain’s other side. The MacLeans smelled of sweat and animal blood, and Iain could see that several of them had dead deer and rabbits strapped to their mounts. One man had great spiky antlers strapped to his horse along with a satchel soaked with blood. The man had the blood of the animal smeared under his eyes and down the bridge of his nose to show he’d made the greatest kill of the day, and it was to this man that Iain looked.

  Angus spoke in a low undertone. “That one will have the feeling of power from the kill flowing though him.”

  “Aye,” Iain agreed, following Angus’s gaze to the man Iain had already marked as trouble.

  The painted man moved ahead on his stallion and approached, the other eight slightly behind him. Iain didn’t have time to gently wake Marion. He gave her a hard shake, and when her eyes fluttered open, he whispered in her ear. “We’re at the MacLean hold. Dunnae talk until I say ye can.”

  She stiffened in his arms, but her gaze darted to the side. She must have seen the men, because her eyes widened and she gave a quick nod.

  “Well, if it’s nae the legendary MacLeod,” the painted warrior said with a trace of contempt.

  Iain gripped the reins of his destrier. He didn’t like being at the disadvantage with the stranger knowing his name. “And who are ye?”

  The man grinned. “Do ye nae remember me, then, Iain?”

  Iain studied the man for a moment—sparse red hair, blue eyes, and a jagged scar above his upper lip. Iain recognized that scar. He’d stood over Bridgette MacLean as she’d clumsily sewn the gash in her cousin’s lip together. Alex had given it to him for disobeying an order and nearly getting ten clansmen killed rescuing him.

  “Ye’ve grown, Archibald,” Iain said to the once impulsive and impetuous boy now turned man. He was careful to keep his words void of emotion to disguise his surprise. The last time he’d seen Archibald MacLean, he’d barely come to Iain’s shoulder. The man now almost looked Iain eye to eye.

  “That happens in four years. Ye’d nae be amazed if ye’d seen me, but since I was banished from battles…” Bitterness tinged Archibald’s words.

  “Ye should consider yerself fortunate,” Iain said, irritated that the man still seemed to be foolish. “If ye were my clansman and ye disobeyed my orders in battle and nearly got my men killed trying to rescue ye, I would have banished ye from the clan. Alex is a much kinder laird than I am.”

  “I do consider myself fortunate,” Archibald said. “And I’m nae angry with Alex, if that’s what ye think. I’m angry with myself for the battles I missed and the men that died when I ken I could have saved them.”

  “I see ye learned humility in your time in the stables,” Rory Mac added with a snort.

  Archibald smirked at Rory Mac. “I’ve about as much humility as I remember ye having. And I dunnae speak anything but the truth. I was always one of the best warriors, even when young. Ye ken that. What I lacked was patience and forethought.”

  Iain spoke before Rory Mac could reply. Rory Mac and Archibald tended toward quick-heated anger, and Iain did not want to break up a fight. “Are ye saying ye have learned those two things?”

  Archibald grinned. “If I had nae learned those two virtues, do ye think Alex would have let me join his forces once more?”

  “Nay,” Iain said. “I dunnae. Welcome back.”

  Archibald accepted Iain’s words with a tilt of his head, but the man had already pointedly shifted his gaze to Marion. “I’m sorry for the loss of Catriona,” he said, his tone sincere.

  “I thank ye,” Iain replied, feeling uncomfortable. It had been quite some time since he’d had to withstand the looks of sorrow and pitying words. It used to be that his chest would tighten, but it did not now, surprising him. Maybe time was finally healing the wound, or maybe he was just learning to control the gut-wrenching reaction that occurred when someone reminded him that Catriona was gone.

  Archibald slowly swept his gaze up and down Marion in a manner that made Iain instantly aware that the man liked what he saw. Iain had a sudden, intense dislike for Alex’s cousin. Angus must have felt it, too, because he growled low in his throat.

  Archibald smiled as he stared at Marion. “So who do ye have here? Is she a gift for Alex?”

  “She is nae a gift for Alex,” Iain said through clenched teeth.

  On either side of him, he saw Rory Mac and Angus each touch their weapons as Marion’s hand clutched Iain’s thigh. He wanted to press his palm over her hand to reassure her that she was safe, but to show he cared might make her even more appealing to Archibald. Even as a young lad, he had always pursued what he thought he could not attain. Iain did not wish to start his visit with Alex by thrashing his cousin if it could be avoided.

  Archibald’s grin widened. “Excellent. I’ll take her.” He started to reach forward as if to grab Marion off Iain’s horse, but Iain whipped out his dagger and pointed it at the man. Archibald may have grown into a man, but the heart of who he was had not changed a bit. The only way he’d accept the truth is by having it clarified with a threat.

  “She’s nae a gift for anyone.” Iain glared at the man. “She’s my property, and I dunnae share what I own.”

  Marion grew even tenser in Iain’s arms. Didn’t the woman know he’d not let any harm come to her?

  “What’s yer name?” Archibald demanded of her.

  Marion inhaled a sharp breath as if to answer, but Iain cut her off. “Her name is the MacLeod’s wife,” he growled. “That is what ye may call her unless I say otherwise. Do ye ken?”

  Archibald eyed Iain for a long moment, then Iain’s dagger. He nodded with a smile. “I did nae ken ye married again. Is she a Scottish lass? Such things usually reach us quickly.”

  “Nay. She’s from England.”

  “Och, that explains it, then. I’m sorry for ye,” Archibald said, shaking his head. “Come. I’ll lead ye to Alex.”

  Iain didn’t correct Archibald’s assumption that Marion was a cold Englishwoman. It was better to let him think that so that he’d not bother with her.

  Iain simply nodded and motioned for Rory Mac, Angus, and Neil to follow.

  If it were possible to spit fire, Marion was sure she’d be shooting blazing flames out of her mouth and nostrils right now. She was that mad. She glared ahead as Iain guided his horse toward the towering, foreboding hold in the distance. She was about to tell him exactly what she thought of him instructing people to call her “the MacLeod’s wife,” and just as bad was his obvious distaste for his English wife, but the man with the dark gaze, Archibald, placed himself beside Iain and started asking him questions about their king, David, and his captivity in England.

  Through the anger roaring in her ears, she learned that David had been imprisoned in England for eleven years already. She’d not known it had been that long. Father had mentioned the King of Scots before, and what he’d said was that King Edward wanted a Scottish king he could control, and David was not a man to be controlled, which was likely why he was still imprisoned. She knew little else because Father didn’t consider her worthy of talking to about—or capable of understanding—politics. Perhaps she’d ask Iain later. She thought he’d likely tell her more of the history, at least.

  She sat silently as they rode, but when Marion heard the man Archibald refer to her once more as “the MacLeo
d’s wife,” she felt as if smoke was coming from her, but no one seemed to notice or care. She cut her gaze to her left and met Angus’s eyes. Her stomach clenched at the pity and worry swimming in her friend’s green gaze.

  I’m sorry, lass, he mouthed.

  She nodded and quickly turned away, not wanting to show her anger to him. Even though Iain was Angus’s laird, she didn’t doubt that Angus’s loyalty was with her, and because of that, she didn’t want him to see how upset and hurt she was by Iain’s treatment. Knowing Angus, he’d lose his temper and say something he should not. Iain may be a reasonable man, but she doubted he’d stand for one of his clansmen telling him how to treat his wife. Besides that, she was married now, and she was Iain’s “property,” as he’d so rudely told everyone. She squeezed her hands together. If she’d had any doubts that Iain only cared for her for the pleasure she could give him, she had none now.

  With Iain referring to her as “the MacLeod’s wife,” everyone would soon know he had little regard for her. She gritted her teeth at the familiar pain of being the one who didn’t belong. Her father had been quick to point out often that she was only half-English, and now she supposed she was only half-Scottish, and worse, an intruder in Iain’s life and his clan. Though Rory Mac had been nice enough, as well as Neil, she suspected once his clan saw she was not loved by Iain, they would ignore her, just as most everyone had done at her father’s home.

  She jerked a hand through her hair, and her fingers became stuck in the tangled mess. She slowly unthreaded her fingers from her matted locks and brought her hands in front of her. Dirt smudged her skin and had caked itself under her nails. She could only imagine how awful she must look.

  Maybe her appearance had embarrassed Iain and that was why he’d treated her so. The thought made her frown. If it was, the man was a shallow goat. She almost wanted to not bathe until they reached his home just to teach him a lesson, but the fact was that her skin itched and so did her scalp, and she really did feel dirty. No, she wasn’t going to forego a bath, if she could get one, just to torture him. There were other ways to do that. Well, really only one, which was to deny him her body. She doubted he’d force her to join with him, at least not here at the MacLean hold. The problem was that she had enjoyed his touch, too.