Tempting the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  The giant glanced toward Robbie without moving his head and very hoarsely and very quickly started speaking.

  Catherine didn’t wait around to see what he had to say and scurried past them and ran toward the clearing, where she found three more giants dressed in the same plaid as Robbie and Ian. They were sitting beside the blazing fire, and Ian was sitting in the middle of them, clutching the hands of one of the men and quietly sobbing.

  Two of the men stood as soon as she broke into the clearing, their hands going to the hilts of their swords. Ian and his companion were a bit slower getting to their feet, with the younger man putting a protective arm around Ian.

  Okay, she wanted to wake up now.

  “Catherine,” Ian said, rushing to her, tears streaming down his face into his beard and his smile so big it must hurt. “This is my son, Niall,” he said, pulling her by the arm over to the large man. “He’s Laird Niall now,” he added excitedly. “That means my son is their leader,” he explained, puffing his chest even further.

  Ian then said something in Gaelic to Niall, who was staring at her as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock.

  “I’ve been telling him the story we decided on last night,” Ian told her, giving her arm a pat. “Don’t let his glare scare ya, lass. He’s not caring to see ya in that MacBain plaid, is all.”

  Niall said something to one of the other men, and the guy frowned at him, then at her, and started undressing. Catherine squeaked and turned away, only to come nose-to-chest with Robbie.

  “What is it with you Scots?” she muttered, looking up at him. “You’re always undressing.”

  “Better us than you,” he said, reaching around her and taking the man’s plaid. “Here, why don’t you step into the woods and put this on? Then we can go to the village.”

  Catherine leaned to the side to peek around him. “Ah…where’s the other guy?” she whispered, taking the plaid—which smelled like a dead horse—and holding it away from herself.

  “He decided he wanted to walk home,” Robbie said, nudging her toward the woods.

  Without looking back, for fear of seeing the naked Scot, she marched to the trees, still holding the plaid away from herself.

  She didn’t realize Robbie was following her until she turned to duck behind a dense bush. “What are you doing? I can change without your help.”

  He started unwrapping his own plaid. “I prefer you wear mine.”

  Catherine spun away with a groan of frustration. “So, that’s Ian’s son?” she asked, willing her cheeks to cool while she listened to Robbie undress. “And he’s really their leader?”

  “Aye. And he’s called a laird,” he said, setting his much nicer-smelling plaid over her shoulder and taking the stinky one out of her hand. “They heard the storm last night and were scouting the area to make sure a fire hadn’t started from a lightning strike. Poor Niall looked as if he was seeing a ghost once he recognized Ian.”

  “They believed Ian’s story, that he’s been in England for…for…” She glanced over her shoulder, only to find herself staring at Robbie’s wonderfully masculine body as he wrapped the smelly plaid around himself. Darn it! What was her question?

  Oh, yeah. “How long has Ian been gone? Thirty-five years?”

  “Nay. We’ve come back only ten years after Ian left.”

  “But he’s eighty-five years old.”

  “He has the health of a sixty-year-old of this time.”

  Catherine forced herself to tear her gaze away and step behind the thick bush. “Gwyneth will know the difference,” she said, undoing her MacBain plaid and tossing it over a branch.

  “You think so?”

  “But maybe she’ll be so glad to have him back she won’t care,” Catherine speculated. “Why did that guy grab me? Because I was wearing the wrong colors?”

  “Nay. He didn’t see your plaid, only a young, beautiful, unprotected woman.”

  Catherine paled to the roots of her tangled hair. “He would have…he wanted to…”

  “Nay. He wouldn’t have harmed you. He was only thinking he’d found himself a wife.”

  “A wife!”

  “I warned you that women have little say here. And an unprotected lass is fair game. Hell,” he said, waving his hand with his back to her. “Stealing wives, especially from other clans, is more of a sport than warring is.”

  Catherine stopped trying to figure out how to wrap the plaid as Ian had shown her and stared at Robbie. “You’re kidding, right? Men don’t actually steal their wives.”

  “Ian stole Gwyneth from the Macleries.”

  “And the Macleries didn’t come after her?”

  “Now, why would they want to do that? It’s a matter of pride when a daughter is chosen by a MacKeage warrior. The MacKeages are a powerful clan.”

  “Does anyone ask the woman if she wants to get married?” Catherine muttered, trying again to adjust the plaid. “Darn it, I can’t get this right.”

  Robbie stepped around the bush and took the end of the cloth from her, unwrapped it two wraps, settled it over her shoulders, and tucked it into her cleavage. He smiled when she gasped and took her in his arms and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

  Catherine clung to him. She might not be ready to make love to the man, but kissing him back was definitely okay—since this was only a dream. So she surrendered to the need she’d bottled up inside her for so long, canted her head, and grabbed his hair, deepening the contact.

  He lifted her off her feet with a satisfied groan and swept his tongue inside her mouth. She had a wonderful time exploring his taste while reveling in the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her. His hand on her backside felt quite pleasant, too. And his noble intentions pushing into her belly compelled her to lift her knees and wrap her legs around his waist until she was nestled intimately against him.

  He broke the kiss the moment she did that and looked down at her so fiercely that Catherine stopped breathing.

  “You come alive at the most inopportune times,” he growled, letting her slide down his body until she was standing again. He shoved her head against his chest with a shuddering sigh and squeezed her tightly. “One of these times, I’m not going to care who’s around or what’s happening,” he continued over her head, his guttural voice rumbling under her cheek. “My noble intentions be damned.”

  Catherine smiled into his chest. “I love it when a man talks romantic.”

  He tilted her head back so she could look up at his scowl. “Every man has his limits, little Cat. And we’re about reaching mine.”

  Her smile broadened. “Women have limits, too,” she said, reaching up and tapping the tip of his nose.

  His arms tightened. “I’m having a hell of a time reading you, woman. One minute you’re a wary mouse, and the next minute you’re all but exploding in my arms.”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “Then maybe you should quit kissing me.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” he muttered, lowering his head and capturing her mouth. “Catherine,” he said, once he was done kissing her again. “While we’re here, you only have to remember three things. That you carry your stick with you at all times and that you never go anywhere alone.”

  “And the other thing?” she asked, kneading her fingers into his strong shoulders.

  He kissed her once more, his mouth lingering possessively. “That you’re mine,” he whispered fiercely, setting her away and taking her hand to lead her back to camp.

  Catherine was beginning to doubt her dream theory, wondering how she could know so much about medieval Scotland that she could picture it in such detail: such as the saddle she was sitting in for their ride down the mountain, with its crude buckles and uncomfortable wooden seat, and the swords and daggers and ancient gear of the warriors.

  Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever having a dream that involved so many senses. The rabbit she’d eaten before they’d left camp had been delicious, roasted on a spit over a crackling
fire. And the smell of the campfire had permeated her plaid. And the men! The three MacKeage warriors and the one who had accosted her in the woods smelled of pine and spruce and male sweat and horses.

  Catherine couldn’t remember if she usually dreamed in black and white, but she was certainly seeing technicolor now—the bright red hair of some of the warriors, Robbie’s rich gray eyes, the warm purples and grays and greens in their plaids, and the sharp, vibrant blue of the sky slamming into the peak of the dark granite mountain.

  Even sounds were vivid and eerily real, such as the rhythm of the horses’ hooves sliding over rock or muffled by moss and the low, guttural conversations among the men as they rode single file down the winding path.

  Catherine found she liked the cadence of Gaelic speech. It sounded as if they were singing one minute but had a hairball caught in their throats the next. The rhythm was strong, rather musical in tempo, with forced and then whispered syllables punctuating each sentence.

  They finally reached level ground, and Catherine stretched in her saddle to see Ian riding behind his son, one hand waving excitedly through the air as he talked nonstop. She turned and looked behind her to see Robbie riding one of the other warriors’ horses. The man who had stripped naked to give her his plaid had apparently decided to walk home with the man who’d grabbed her by the stream.

  She pushed her stick back over her shoulder as she smiled at Robbie. He’d fashioned her a sling from a length of rawhide, so that she could carry it without smacking herself silly.

  Robbie pointed over her head, and Catherine turned forward to look, only to gasp. She could see the towers of a tall, imposing castle through the trees, looming like a dark specter that was anything but fairy-tale pretty.

  “That’s the MacKeage keep,” he told her. “We’re almost to the village. Listen, you can hear it.”

  What she heard was the sound of children shouting and laughing, and it made her suddenly homesick for Nathan and Nora. Robbie had said she’d be back before they woke up, but to her, she’d already been gone almost a day. As interesting as this dream was, she didn’t know how much longer she could stand being away from her babies.

  The path opened up at the edge of the village, and Catherine couldn’t even begin to take it all in. There were huts, maybe a hundred of them, dotting the hillside, reaching all the way to the castle. No, to the keep, Robbie had called it.

  There were people and children and chickens and goats and dogs everywhere. Smoke rose in lazy clouds from several of the huts, forming a blanket of haze over the village. Several children rushed toward them, and Robbie moved his horse up alongside hers.

  “Stay right beside me,” he said. “And try not to look so overwhelmed,” he added with a chuckle. “We’ll be going to Gwyneth’s cabin first.”

  Within minutes, they had a parade of curious people following them. The women were quite pretty, with long hair in varying shades of auburn pulled back in braids and loose tails. They wore colorful blouses, dark skirts that looked to be woven wool, and shawls of the MacKeage plaid.

  Catherine sidled her horse closer to Robbie when she noticed some of the women pointing and the men crowding toward them. Several of the men were half naked, their plaids rolled down around their waists, exposing broad chests and beefy arms.

  Their impromptu procession wound through narrow village lanes, scattering animals and people who quickly closed back in behind them. They finally came to a stop in front of a cabin that sat in the shadow of the keep, and Niall tossed his leg over his horse’s neck, slid to the ground, then turned and helped Ian down.

  Catherine was close enough that she could see the old man was trembling, swiping at his eyes several times, and not knowing what to do with his hands, until he finally clasped them together at his waist.

  The murmur of the crowd hushed, and Catherine saw a tiny woman, nearly as old as Ian, step out of the cabin with a baby in her arms and a child of about three clutching her skirt. Niall took the baby and handed it to the younger woman who had stepped out of the cabin behind Gwyneth. He took his mother’s hand and guided her to a stool by the door as he whispered something to her. Niall gently lowered her down onto the stool when the older woman gasped and her knees buckled, her wide, shocked eyes staring at Ian.

  Ian wasn’t moving a muscle now, except for his hands, that he kept wringing and twisting at his waist.

  Robbie reached over and took Catherine’s hand, and held it on his thigh as they sat on their horses, his thumb rubbing her knuckles in soothing circles.

  Ian took a hesitant step forward, then stopped and stood trembling. He suddenly fell to his knees with a loud cry, wrapped his arms around his wife, and buried his face in her chest.

  Gwyneth MacKeage dug her fingers into her husband’s back, buried her own face in his hair, and quietly sobbed.

  Catherine used her free hand to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks, and Robbie leaned close. “This is what I’m about, Catherine,” he whispered thickly, his warm breath caressing her ear. “This is when my duty becomes my calling.”

  It was also when Catherine’s infatuation with Robbie MacBain became love. She looked over at him, at his own shining eyes as Robbie watched Ian hugging his one true love, and her heart swelled, and thumped, and started racing. This man—this incredible, fascinating, towering giant—was more than a dream guy. He was her dream. Her true love. Her calling.

  And by God, he was her duty now, too.

  That was the wonderful thing about dreams; they were a person’s subconscious attempt to expose a fear until it became nothing more than a mere worry. Until Dorothy had visited Oz, the young girl had thought she had a world of problems too big to overcome. But there was nothing like an incredible journey to put things in perspective.

  Catherine certainly had perspective now. The last ten years of her life shriveled to nothing and changed from being a nightmare to being the gift that had given her Nathan and Nora and the determination to fight for the life she wanted.

  And the courage to love Robbie MacBain.

  “My God, woman, if you don’t quit looking at me like that,” Robbie growled, “I’m going to scandalize this entire village.”

  Catherine smiled up at him and gently cupped his beautiful face in her hand. “Was that a threat or a promise?”

  His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched so tightly she could feel his teeth grind together. “You’re killing me, little Cat.”

  She patted his cheek, smiled with the confidence of a woman in love, and straightened back on her horse and looked at Ian and Gwyneth.

  They were standing now, but Ian still wasn’t done hugging his wife. The tiny woman barely came up to the old warrior’s chin, but her frail arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist that her knuckles were white. The young woman with the baby was sobbing uncontrollably, using the child’s blanket to wipe her eyes. Niall finally took the baby from her and nudged her toward Ian.

  “That’s Caitlin, Ian’s youngest daughter,” Robbie whispered. “He has another daughter named Megan, but she married a Maclerie and lives about twenty miles away.” He dismounted and helped Catherine down from her horse. “News will travel fast, and I expect Megan will be here in a few days.”

  Finding herself in a sea of people, Catherine clung to Robbie as he led her to the cabin, and stood quietly as everyone spoke at once, in Gaelic, about only God knew what. Ian’s hands flew wildly, punctuating his speech, as everyone listened with wide eyes and occasional gasps.

  Ian suddenly pulled Catherine into the center of his gaping family. He spoke rapidly, his words spitting on her several times, his hand waving about her head.

  Robbie finally rescued her and whispered in her ear. “Ian is telling them how you helped him escape from the English,” he said. “He’s making you into quite a hero.”

  It was Catherine’s turn to gasp. “But I don’t want to be a hero. You’re the one who brought Ian back to his family, not me. You should get the credit. T
ell them,” she said, stepping closer when someone reached out and touched her hair. “Tell them it was you, not me.”

  “Nay, Cat. It’s better if I remain anonymous here.”

  “But I want to be anonymous, too,” she squeaked, scooting to the other side of him when somebody touched her arm.

  Robbie pulled her into the cabin, and Catherine blinked at the sudden darkness as he led her to a stool. She lifted her stick off her back, laid it on the floor, and sat down with a sigh of relief. “What happens now?” she asked, looking at his silhouette against the doorway.

  “Now you stay here with Ian and Gwyneth, and I go look for Cùram’s tree.”

  She jumped up from the stool. “But I want to go with you.”

  “Nay, Catherine, it’s too dangerous.” He took hold of her shoulders. “If you want me to stop coming here, you’ll have to let me finish this. Just as soon as I get the root, we’ll leave.”

  “But I can help.”

  “How?”

  “By…I can…oh, I don’t know,” she said, stepping back to cross her arms under her breasts. “I can at least make sure you don’t get beat up or killed.”

  He stepped forward and took hold of her shoulders again. “You can’t even speak the language. And I need you to keep an eye on Ian. It’s going to take him time to readjust.”

  She grabbed the front of his plaid. “Do you even know what you’re looking for? Or where?”

  “Mary thinks she’s found Cùram’s lair. And I’m guessing his tree will be nearby. I’ll head out first thing in the morning.” His hands on her shoulders tightened. “And you will wait here.”

  Ian walked into the hut with his arm wrapped around Gwyneth and Caitlin’s arm wrapped around him. Niall followed, carrying the baby and towing the little girl by the hand. Catherine moved away from Robbie, picked up her stool, carried it to the corner, and sat down out of the way. Not that it did her any good. Caitlin and Gwyneth rushed over, took her by the hands, and led her behind a blanket hanging from the ceiling that was hiding a tiny cot.

  Catherine didn’t have a clue what they were saying to her, but before she knew what was happening, they had her stripped naked and started redressing her in beautiful, colorful clothes that Gwyneth pulled from a trunk at the foot of the bed.