Highlander in Love

by Julia London

Mared’s terror was quickly turning into a choking panic. She was an inexperienced woman in some respects, but she instinctively understood the look in his eye, understood all too well his intent.

  “What do ye think of it, lads? Shall I kiss a’ diabhal, then?”

  Frantic, Mared thought of what to do and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Ach, ye donna think to run from us, do ye lass?” Jamie asked with a cold chuckle. “I’d fetch ye back in a moment, I would, and I’d no’ be pleased.”

  One of the men laughed. “Let her run, Jamie! I’ll wager ye canna catch her, but if ye do, I’ll pay ye a bloody crown, I will.”

  Mared took several steps backward; her plaid slipped off her head.

  “Oh, she’s bonny, lad,” one of the men said. “If a’ diabhal doesna take ye, perhaps I’ll have a go.”

  The men laughed, and Mared’s heart climbed to her throat. In her panic, she turned to run, twisting about so quickly that she tripped, but she quickly regained her footing and ran as fast as she might.

  She scarcely made it to the edge of the paddock before she was knocked to the ground and the breath knocked from her lungs.

  The men were suddenly shouting, but she could not make out what they said, she could not make out anything other than the hate in Jamie MacGrudy’s eyes when he roughly rolled her onto her back and glared down at her. “Ye bloody accursed little whore, ye cost me a position in a fine house!” he spat. “Do ye think I willna take what is—”

  He never finished his sentence, for he was suddenly flying. Someone leapt over Mared and fell upon him, beating him mercilessly. Mared scrambled to her feet and struggled to catch her breath. It was a moment or two before she could focus and realized that it was Payton beating Jamie senseless, and that two gentlemen were pulling him off Jamie, forcing him back. Payton lashed out with his boot, kicking Jamie in the small of his back.

  “Leave him, laird!” one of the men bellowed.

  Two more gentlemen appeared and crouched down to examine Jamie, who was moaning and gripping his stomach.

  Payton shook off the men who held him as if they were gnats and leaned over, grabbed Jamie by the collar, and hauled him up to his feet. “If ye ever so much as look in her direction, I will kill ye, aye?”

  “Aye, aye,” Jamie whimpered. One of the men pushed Payton aside and two more put their arms around Jamie to help him walk.

  “Lock him away!” Payton roared.

  “Aye, laird, aye,” one of the men assured him, patting him on the shoulder. That man glanced at Mared, then at Jamie’s back, and walked on, the other men falling behind him and the two that led Jamie away.

  When they disappeared around the corner, Payton pivoted around to Mared. He had blood on his waistcoat and his shirt. His jaw was clenched tightly shut, but he suddenly strode forward and in three long strides, he caught her, yanked her into his arms, and cradled her head against his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Mared, so very sorry,” he said and suddenly released her, set her back from him so he could study her closely. There was still fire in his eyes, and his jaw was implacably set. His nostrils flared with each furious breath, but he carefully laid his palm against her cheek, his eyes searching her face.

  She couldn’t help herself—her hands were trembling, her nerves had made a mess of her belly, and there was something so fiercely protective in the set of his jaw and the hard glint of his eye that she crumpled. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes; she could feel twenty-seven years of defense melting away, and without thought, Mared flung her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder.

  Payton caught her around the waist and held her tightly to him as she sobbed onto his shoulder. She felt such relief and safety in the circle of his arms, felt connected to this man by some thick and indestructible bond. Her heart was falling, slipping out from beneath the stone wall she had erected, sliding and tumbling out from its armor. She could hear Donalda whisper, The truth is in yer heart, lass….

  She believed.

  Mared turned her face from his shoulder to his neck, her lips landing on the curve of his jaw. She heard his quick draw of breath, felt him hold it. “Ye saved me,” she muttered helplessly against his cheek. “How will I ever thank ye?”

  “Diah, Mared, do ye no’ know it well by now? I’d lay down my very life for ye.”

  She did know it. She’d always known it, but this was the first time she’d been willing to acknowledge it deep within herself. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, this man, this powerful laird, who was looking at her in astonishment and with hope in his eyes. She thought it odd that he could appear so strong and vulnerable all at once. Her gaze swept his handsome face—the thick brows over slate gray eyes, the aquiline nose, the proud cheekbones, the square jaw…the dark flesh of his lips. How had she resisted him for so long? How had she let something like a name keep her from him?

  Now her heart tilted, knocked her off her bearings, and she caught Payton by surprise with a sudden kiss to his mouth. A hard, unyielding, determined kiss. Payton took her chin in his hand, turned her head slightly, and opened his mouth to hers, stroking her with his tongue. His other hand swept down her back, to her hip, and clutched her, pressing her into him, then sweeping up, to the swell of her breast, cupping it reverently, squeezing against the fabric that confined her, his fingers brushing the bare skin above the bodice.

  He kissed her deeply, so deeply that she felt as if she were falling away into an abyss with nothing surrounding her but the warmth of his body, the pressure of his soft lips, the strength of his hands and arms that held her. She could feel his desire in the hard ridge that he pressed against her, could feel his esteem for her in the way he laid his hands so tenderly on her skin.

  Her tears stopped flowing and she began her own search of him, her hands running up his arms, down his back, around the trim waist, and up the hard plane of his chest. Her body felt on fire, and she wanted nothing more than to pull the seams of her gown apart so that his breath might cool her skin.

  But a sound in the distance, the steady rise of voices nearing them, filtered into her consciousness. Payton’s, too, apparently, for he gripped her arms tightly and slowly pushed her away from him.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered and quickly kissed her again, nipping at her lip, and then, breathing quick and hard, he stepped away from her and looked at her with a depth of emotion that made her shiver. It was devotion in those gray eyes—and at the very least, a raging desire that stoked her own.

  Payton touched her cheek once more, then turned and strode forward to greet the men who had come around to see what had happened.

  Twenty-two

  N eacel Douglas was, understandably, horrified by what had happened by the stables on the occasion of his wedding and handled the matter expeditiously. Jamie and his companions were hauled off to the nearest constable, and from there, Jamie was to be taken to a gaol at Fort William, where his fate would be determined by a judge whose surname happened to be Douglas.

  In the aftermath, Payton wasn’t entirely certain what had become of Mared, but when their hosts had come rushing to the stables to see after them, she had retrieved her arisaidh from the ground and wrapped it around her and was surrounded by his aunt Catrine and cousin Edme, Neacel’s sister, who had hurried Mared away with their arms securely around her.

  He assumed they had taken her to her chamber and that she was, at the very least, physically well—but he could not vouch for her emotional state.

  His thoughts quickly turned fearful—fear that she regretted her passionate, soul-searing kiss, fear that he had laid his heart bare again, and would, therefore, feel its demise once again.

  When Charlie brought him the polished shoes, he feigned ignorance and asked after his household staff. “All is well with us, aye?”

  “Aye, laird,” Charlie said, his young face glowing. “We’ve been right entertained, we have. Alan participated in the caber toss.”

  That surprised
and pleased Payton. “Oh? How did he fare?”

  “Dead last, milord,” Charlie said with a laugh. “But the lad was game about it and gave it his best toss for Eilean Ros.”

  “I must thank him,” Payton said, smiling. “And the women?” he asked, turning slightly. “How do they do?”

  For some reason, Charlie laughed a little. “Quite well, laird, quite well indeed. Aye, they are a bonny pair—there was a bit of a queue to dance with them last evening.”

  That only gave him a stab of unexpected jealousy.

  “If there is naugh’ else, milord…”

  “No,” Payton said, smiling thinly. “Go, then, and enjoy the wedding. I’ll no’ have need of any of ye on the morrow. Ye are free to join in the festivities.”

  Charlie’s face brightened considerably. “Thank ye, laird! I shall give word to the others.”

  Payton waited until Charlie had quit the room before he dragged both hands through his hair and, like a green lad, wondered how he might endure the night without her. He needed her. And he’d let his damn hopes wing free again.

  But he was a grown man and he managed. He dressed for the evening and muddled his way through a rather raucous supper, where tall tales of hunting were told. After supper, the women took the bride up to her chambers to perform the traditional foot washing and to play the bridal games that were likewise traditional on the eve of a wedding. The men departed with Neacel to parade him about the village with a lot of fanfare and noisemaking and then drink as much ale as they could collectively consume.

  When they returned to the castle, it was well past midnight, and they were well into their cups. Most of the women had retired, but there were still a few hearty souls up and about. Payton’s Aunt Catrine made her way to his side with a young woman in tow.

  “Ye willna recall yer distant cousin Dora,” she said as she introduced them.

  She was the third unmarried woman Catrine had brought around to him since his arrival, but Payton was a seasoned veteran of matchmaking attempts, and he smiled, came to his feet, and bent over Dora’s hand.

  “Dora is me husband’s nephew’s daughter,” Catrine explained. “Ye met her when she was a wee lass.”

  “I canna believe so, Aunt, for I would no’ have forgotten such a bonny lass,” he said gallantly, and the young woman blushed.

  Catrine smiled happily, put her hand on the small of the bashful Dora’s back, and gave her a nudge toward Payton.

  He sat with the lass, making polite conversation. But when he looked at her lips, he thought of Mared’s lips. When he looked at her brown eyes, he saw green. And when he glanced at her hair, so artfully arranged, he saw Mared’s long black braid.

  When Dora waxed dreamily about the wedding and spoke of her interest in art, he thought of Mared tromping about the Highlands in her boots, pilfering berries and penning his sheep.

  The night was interminable.

  Because of her brush with disaster, Mared spent the evening in her chamber, afraid to go out and join the other servants, who were wild with joy and helped along by a significant amount of ale. When a giddy Una asked where she’d been, Mared lied. “In the bailey. Did ye no’ see me there?”

  Una swore that she had not, but then, she had seen only the handsome footman.

  Mared didn’t emerge from her chamber until the next morning, in time for the wedding.

  The Douglases were ecstatically happy that the day had dawned so crystal clear and cool. It augured a good beginning for the bridal couple.

  Mared donned her purple gown and with Una, stayed at the fringes of the crowd for the traditional processional to the kirk. There were three hundred souls attending the processional, and another hundred or more already waiting in the kirk yard. As the old stone kirk was so small, the servants and villagers were to stand outside while Douglases filled the pews and lined the walls within.

  Mared and Una stood together under an elm tree, Una watching for Harold, the footman whom she had come to love desperately in the space of forty-eight hours, and Mared no longer pretending not to look for Payton.

  But how could she miss him? He was part of the family processional, looking quite resplendent in his black coat, a white, frilled lawn shirt, a green waistcoat, and the féileadh beag, the plaid tartan of Eilean Ros, belted at his waist. He’d also donned the traditional sporran and ghillie brogues.

  Behind him and his cousins, two young girls skipped along, tossing rose petals on the path the bride would take. “Diah, but she’s bloody beautiful!” Una sighed as the bride appeared.

  She was resplendent in her cream-colored gown. She wore a garland of heather around her fair head and carried a bouquet of Scottish roses and thistle. As she neared the kirk, a piper began to play the bagpipe, welcoming her in traditional fashion.

  The bagpiper stood aside as the Douglases filed into the kirk, followed at last by the bride and her father.

  Those standing in the kirk yard could not hear the ceremony as it was performed, so Mared made her way through the throng to get as close to the door as possible. And while she could not see the couple—there were too many men standing along the back wall of the kirk—she could hear the priest conduct the ceremony in Gaelic, could hear the couple recite their vows.

  At the conclusion of the ceremony, the happy couple kissed to the wild approval of those congregated inside the kirk, and Mared drifted to the fringe of the crowd once more as the couple burst forth, their hands clasped, their faces beaming. The groom threw coins to the children as they hurried to the carriage parked nearby, and they were whisked away to Castle Leven, while the hundreds of guests walked, accompanied by the bagpiper and joyful wedding songs.

  Mared did not see Payton in that crowd—there were too many people, too much movement and jostling about.

  The wedding breakfast had been split—the servants would dine in the old stables, and the family and guests of the Douglases in the castle. Following breakfast, there would be a rest period, and the common celebration, at which servants and their betters would mingle, would begin late in the afternoon with singing and speeches in advance of feasting and dancing that would carry on well after the newlyweds were shown to their bridal chamber.

  After the breakfast, Mared and Una returned to their room to rest and dress for the big celebration that evening.

  Except that they did very little resting, as Una was too enamored of Harold to keep quiet for more than a moment. She chattered endlessly as to how kind he was, and how very thoughtful, and when he kissed her, Una felt as if she’d contracted a tropical fever and felt close to fainting.

  Mared wished she would go on and faint, then, for it was impossible to hear so much joy and anticipation of love without wanting to feel that all for herself. Accustomed as she was to pushing those sorts of feelings down, it was difficult to let them out, if only for an evening.

  But as Una arranged her hair in a most artful style on the back of her head, chatting all the while about Harold, Mared managed to let a small ray of joy beam inside herself. And she allowed herself the tiniest sliver of hope that she, too, might marry one day and hold her own baby in her arms, as fat and happy as wee Duncan. A hope that she might be loved and not feared, that no one would die in the course of loving her.

  That hope buoyed her, and when she donned the blue silk with Una’s assistance, her appearance steeled her. She couldn’t help but stare at her reflection in the mirror, for she’d never looked so elegant as this, had never possessed the aristocratic bearing necessary to carry it. By some miracle, she did this evening. Something about the way Payton had looked at her there by the stable had made her feel beautiful and entirely immortal.

  “Oh, Miss Lockhart!” Una exclaimed behind her, blinking at her reflection. “Ye’re even bonnier than the poor bride!”

  Mared laughed. “Bring the roses there, aye?” she said, nodding at a vase on the windowsill. “What do ye think? We shall put them in our hair.”

  Una was delighted, and so it was with Scott
ish roses entwined in her hair and jewelry borrowed from Ellie that Mared joined the common wedding feast at dusk.

  She was instantly aware of the many eyes on her. Some looked at her in fear, but some—men, really—looked at her with a sort of admiration. And lust, if she were quite honest about it. From the women, there was perhaps a bit of coveting of her gown.

  That put a smile on Mared’s face.

  With her hands clasped behind her back, she found a small Scotch pine and she and Una stood with their backs to the tree so they could watch the enormous crowd as the wedding speeches were made. The setting sun looked as if it was straight out of a painting, glistening on the surface of Loch Leven. Butterflies swooped in and above the crowd as several shouted their gay and bawdy words of encouragement to the bridal couple, demanding kisses and cheering the couple when they playfully touched their lips together.

  As the speeches wound down, and the sun had slipped into the hills, five large fires were lit about the large parklike lawn, signaling that the feast and dancing were soon to begin. Apair of bagpipers and flautists made their way onto the platform that had been vacated by the bridal couple and began to play lively tunes.

  Una spied Harold, and with a shriek of glee, and after Mared assured her she’d be perfectly fine without her, off the girl went, leaving Mared to stand alone under the limbs of the pine tree. Only a few moments passed before she sensed someone watching her and very deliberately turned and looked over her shoulder.

  He was standing a good distance from her, but Mared saw him instantly and her heart stopped beating at the sight of him. He was still dressed in the traditional plaid with his legs braced apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and gazing at her with the sort of smile that suggested he very much liked what he was seeing.

  Mared tilted her head in acknowledgment of that and smiled.

  Payton returned the nod.

  Her smile broadened; she gestured to her gown, how it gathered tightly beneath her bosom then flowed into silky layers of embroidered panels over an underskirt. He cocked a brow. She turned a little to her right so that he might see the train, then to her left, and then laughingly dipped a tiny little curtsey.