Highland Warrior

by Connie Mason

  “Aye, you have, but you were free to leave at any time. I promised you naught, if you recall. And did you nae make yourself available to others when I wasna in the mood?”

  “I willna make your wife welcome,” Seana replied, refusing to answer Ross’s accusation. She sidled close to him and lifted her face. “A marriage between a MacKay and a MacKenna is a marriage made in hell. Never fear, Ross. I will be here to pick up the pieces.”

  The two men watched her flounce off.

  “She is right, you know,” Gordo warned. “I hope you enjoy taming wildcats, because you are going to have one in your bed, if you can get the lass there at all. I wish you luck, lad—you are going to need it.”

  Chapter Three

  Ross arrived at the chapel well ahead of the ceremony. The day was cool and oppressively dismal, with dark clouds hovering on the horizon. Not an auspicious day for a wedding, even though it was a Friday.

  Ross waited at the altar of the tiny chapel, which was filled to bursting with allies of Clan MacKay and Clan MacKenna. Outside the door the cotters stood in the cold, waiting for the bride to arrive.

  Ross watched in consternation as the elderly sexton made his way to the bell tower. The hour of sext was approaching with nary a bride in sight.

  “This could be a trap,” Gordo whispered in Ross’s ear.

  “Nay, Uncle, mayhap the bride got cold feet. I doubt Gillian is eager to wed me.”

  The bell began to peal. Ross counted beneath his breath. One, two, three, four, five ... Just as the bell tolled the final time, the chapel door opened, blowing the bride and her family inside in a gust of frigid air. Gillian paused regally in the doorway, her head held high.

  Ross gawked like a green lad when he saw his betrothed standing in an errant patch of sunlight that had suddenly and mysteriously split the dark clouds. For a moment it looked as if her head had burst into flame, and he blinked.

  She was still standing there when he opened his eyes. He noted that she was wrapped in the MacKay plaid, to annoy him, he supposed. But Ross was far from annoyed. His breath hitched, and his heart began to pump furiously in his chest.

  Her head was uncovered; her red hair flowed down her back and framed her face in living fire. Ross saw naught else, not the ancient chapel awash in flickering candlelight nor the people gathered inside.

  He saw tongues of flame. He blinked again, and when he opened his eyes the flames had disappeared, and in their place stood his redheaded bride-to-be. Suddenly he recalled Gizela’s words and made a vow he intended to keep: He would not let the life force of Gillian’s spirit devour him.

  Ross’s eyes narrowed on Gillian as she slowly started down the aisle with her father. Halfway to the altar her steps faltered; at one point she stopped and looked beseechingly at Tearlach. His face set in grim lines, the MacKay tugged Gillian forward, until they reached the place where Ross awaited.

  Gillian was good and truly caught. She had tried every delaying tactic she knew of to stall the nuptials, but naught had worked. As a final act of defiance, she had wrapped herself in a MacKay plaid. Let Ross MacKenna make what he wanted out of her attire. With her father all but dragging her to a fate worse than death, Gillian knew there was no escape.

  Finally she found the courage to look directly at the MacKenna, and the rawness of shock made her heart constrict. She remembered his fierceness on the battlefield, but she had never seen him like this. Though his face was impassive and difficult to read, the intensity of his blue eyes made her flinch. Did he hate her as much as she hated him? Was he marrying her against his will? Did he want peace badly enough to take a wife he could never like, much less love? Did she want his love? That thought startled her.

  The expression in his eyes was a contradiction. She saw wariness, and beneath that a hint of admiration. For her? She doubted it. Then suddenly she was standing alone beside him. The priest cleared his throat.

  Taking her arm, Ross pinned Gillian to his side. Gillian flinched away from his touch and bared her teeth at him. Another act of defiance, she knew, would get her nowhere.

  She saw the MacKenna’s kinsman lean toward him and heard him whisper, “Did you see that, lad? Tis a match made in hell.”

  “I assure you I am up to the challenge, Uncle,” Ross whispered back.

  Ross glanced down at Gillian. While Gillian tried to ignore his handsome face, the compelling authority emanating from him directed her gaze to his other attributes. His broad shoulders and muscular torso stretched the material of his white shirt and black jacket, and his legs, sturdy as rowan trees beneath his tartan, were muscular extensions of his powerful body. His fancy sporran and the silver brooch studded with gemstones that held his plaid in place were tangible evidence of his high rank.

  The priest cleared his throat again, waiting for a sign to begin the nuptial Mass. She saw the MacKenna nod, and when the priest turned toward the altar, Gillian whispered, “I hate you, MacKenna.”

  Though the MacKenna appeared not to have heard, Gillian could tell by the spark of anger in his eyes and the sudden tightening of his fists that he had. Good! Now he knew exactly where they stood and how their marriage would proceed. No matter what her father had promised, she would never be a true wife to Ross MacKenna.

  The priest’s voice droned on. Gillian was wound so tight, she felt ready to explode. This couldn’t be happening to her. After what seemed like an eternity, the priest asked if she took Ross MacKenna as her husband. Her mouth clamped shut.

  “Answer him, lass,”Tearlach hissed from somewhere behind her.

  Gillian was aware of the MacKenna watching her, of her father and brothers behind her, and then she heard a voice at the back of the chapel shout, “Stop the wedding! Gillian MacKay is my betrothed; she canna legally wed another.”

  His eyes bulging, the priest looked up from the holy book. “Who challenges the legality of this marriage?”

  Gillian nearly fainted in relief when Angus Sinclair strode down the aisle. She would have run to him if the MacKenna hadn’t anticipated her and circled her waist to hold her in place.

  “Let me go!” Gillian hissed. “You heard Angus; I canna wed you. The marriage wouldna be legal.”

  “What say you, MacKay?” Ross asked as the MacKay laird rose from his seat to intercept Sinclair.

  “No betrothal took place. No papers were signed. Sinclair is wrong.”

  “ ’Twas a verbal agreement between friends,” Angus insisted. “Ask Gillian—she will tell you the truth of it.”

  “There was no verbal agreement!” MacKay roared. “Sit down and let the good father continue.”

  When Sinclair continued to sputter and protest, he was forcibly escorted from the chapel by MacKay’s three sons. Angus stopped short of the door, then turned and shouted, “You havena heard the last from me; this I swear!”

  “Good riddance,” MacKay muttered as Angus stormed off.

  Gillian searched her father’s face, sending him a silent plea, but Tearlach remained resolute.

  “Continue the ceremony Father,” Ross ordered. “There will be no more interruptions.”

  The priest sent Gillian a pitying look. “Tell me the truth, lass: Did Angus Sinclair sign a marriage contract? Was there a betrothal?”

  Gillian wanted to lie, but when she looked up and saw the statue of the crucified Christ staring down at her from the altar, the words refused to leave her lips.

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  With a sigh, Tearlach settled back onto the bench, smiling benignly at his daughter.

  The priest continued where he had left off. Though Gillian saw naught but darkness in her future, she mumbled through the rest of the ceremony and stumbled from the chapel on the MacKenna’s arm, her only consolation the knowledge that her marriage would save MacKay lives.

  Icy sleet hit her face like tiny needles. Numb and dazed, she felt naught as the MacKenna lifted her onto his magnificent stallion, mounted behind her, and grasped the reins. They were off to Ravenscraig To
wer amid a chorus of cheers.

  Ross felt the weight of Gillian against his thighs and tried to ignore the instinctive tightening of his loins. Though her weight wasn’t substantial, the heat emanating from her was nearly unbearable. He was amazed at how good she felt in his arms. His hands tightened convulsively on the reins, which only brought her closer against him. She began to squirm, exacerbating Ross’s condition.

  “Hold still,” he ordered.

  Gillian turned her head to look at him. “Why did you do it? Why did you wed me when ’tis what neither of us want?”

  “Did your father nae explain?”

  “Oh, aye, he explained, but I doona ken why you would want to end the feuding. Our clans have always feuded. ’Tis a time-honored tradition.”

  Ross gazed into her green eyes and saw naught but anger shining from them. “What a bloodthirsty little wench you are. The killing canna go on forever, lass. Your da and I wish to have done with it.”

  “Why must I pay the price of peace?” The flare of fury within her intensified. “If you touch me, I will kill you.” Her words, though spoken quietly, were rife with menace.

  Ross sighed heavily. The lass was the fiercest warrior in her family. While he admired her courage, he couldn’t support it. He hated the thought of breaking her, but he couldn’t have her wreaking havoc in his household.

  “I am your husband, Gillian,” he said sternly “ln case you havena been told, you will be sharing my bed, my table, and my hearth. Your father expects the marriage to be consummated this very night, and so it shall be.”

  Gillian went still, very, very still. And if I refuse?” “The choice isna yours to make. Doona make it hard on yourself, lass. I amna a monster.”

  “You are a MacKenna. ’Tis all the same to me.”

  Ross had opened his mouth to give Gillian a proper dressing-down when Gordo rode up beside him, forestalling his response.

  “ ’Tis comforting to know that neither of you has killed the other yet.” Gordo chuckled.

  “The day is still young,” Gillian said sweetly.

  “You’d best watch that one,” Gordo said, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

  “Thank you, Uncle; I intend to.”

  He felt Gillian’s back stiffen as she leaned away from him in a futile attempt to avoid contact. But her heat and the imprint of her body remained. Forcing his mind in another, less distracting direction, Ross realized he had to start this marriage right if he was going to have any peace in his home. He had to show Gillian he wasn’t going to stand for any of her shenanigans, trickery, or feminine wiles. He was her master, and it was best that she learn it sooner rather than later.

  He heard Gillian gasp when Ravenscraig came into view. He tried to look at his home through her eyes as he spotted the tower rising above stone weathered to a soft, shimmering gray. Even under leaden skies and sleet, the tower, rising above the hall and adjoining buildings, appeared welcoming. The gate stood open, and he rode through it. The wedding party and guests entered behind him, some on horseback and others afoot.

  Ross drew rein at the front entrance and dismounted. A lad ran up to hold the reins while Ross lifted Gillian down. “We are home,” he said. “Welcome to Ravenscraig.”

  Home, Gillian thought incredulously. This was nothing like the way she had imagined entering Ravenscraig. She had always assumed her clan would defeat the MacKennas and victoriously claim Ravenscraig. Instead she had become its mistress by wedding the enemy.

  “Smile,” Ross said as he guided her up the stairs.

  Gillian bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile.

  “Ah, Ravenscraig at last,” Tearlach said reverently as he joined his daughter. “You are mistress of Ravenscraig now, Gillian. ’Tis more than I could have hoped for. Hold your head high, lass.”

  “Heed your father,” Ross advised. “Greet my people with a smile and they will treat you with respect. Hate them as you do me and your life here will be miserable.”

  The huge oaken doors opened. Ross and Gillian entered, followed by the wedding guests. Gillian was quick to note that the hall had been decorated in a festive manner. Since it was too late in the year for flowers, rowan boughs and other fragrant greenery had been strewn extravagantly on the rows of long tables and were displayed in tall vases. The rushes were fragrant with pine and dried herbs.

  The hall was less drafty than Braeburn, heated by a huge hearth at one end. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting battles, and the windows were fitted with real glass, a luxury Braeburn Castle did not yet have. A gallery ran the entire length and width of the hall, reached by a stone staircase that wound up to the second story, which Gillian assumed was the solar.

  The tables were spread with white tablecloths, another luxury, and servants waited to begin serving the midday wedding feast. Grasping her elbow, Ross guided Gillian to the high table, seated her, and sat down on her right. Her father sat on her left. Ross’s closest kin and Gillian’s brothers joined them. At Ross’s signal, servants began carrying in trays of food and pitchers of ale. The head table enjoyed Flemish wine.

  Gillian could tell a lot of thought and preparation had gone into the feast. It began with fresh oysters and continued with cock-a-leekie soup made with chicken, leeks, and rice; collops of venison simmered in a creamy sauce; fresh fish; smoked haddock; and other dishes too numerous to name. Gillian managed a few bites of each dish and even sampled the pudding.

  “Are you enjoying the food, wife?” Ross asked.

  “You have outdone yourself, MacKenna. Does your clan enjoy this fare every day?”

  “Aye, though we are only moderately wealthy, we eat well. Today is special, however. I hope you appreciate all that has been done in your honor.”

  Gillian shrugged. She knew the work and expense that went into this kind of feast, but wasn’t going to give MacKenna the satisfaction of knowing how impressed she was with Ravenscraig.

  “If ’twas done for my benefit, ’tis a waste of time and energy. Ravenscraig is yours, not mine.”

  Gillian had meant to anger Ross, and she succeeded. His expression remained cool and composed, but she could see rage seething in the depths of his blue eyes. She suppressed a shudder. How far could she goad this man before he reacted brutally? Did she dare find out?

  “You will mind your tongue, woman,” Ross warned through clenched teeth. “I will not allow you to belittle my people”

  “What will you do, beat me?”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  “What I want you to do no longer matters. We are already wed, against my wishes.”

  - Ross stared into Gillian’s defiant green eyes and could think of many things he wanted to do with her, and not one of them had to do with beating her. Her tart mouth and acid tongue could be put to better use than nagging and complaining. Before this night was over he intended to have her purring with contentment.

  “What are you staring at?” Gillian asked when Ross continued to gaze at her lips.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Gillian. I canna wait to have you in my bed.”

  He saw her lips purse and knew precisely what she was thinking. He had been wise to ask Donald to make sure all his weapons were removed from the solar before he bedded his wife. His warrior bride couldn’t be trusted. She would as soon skewer him as look at him.

  Ross didn’t want that kind of marriage. He had hoped Gillian would realize the importance of uniting their clans and reconcile herself to their marriage. Taming this woman was going to take a great deal more time and patience than he had expected. Fortunately, with winter nigh and the feud behind him, Ross had plenty of time to devote to his wife. He eagerly anticipated bedding his bride.

  “Doona think I am going to fall into your arms, MacKenna,” Gillian spat.

  Ross laughed, leaned close, and whispered, “I am accounted a good lover, wife. I will please you well.”

  “And who, pray tell, accounts you a good lover?”

  Ross’s gaze found
Seana, who was seated nearby, and quickly shifted away. “You will have to take my word.”

  Gillian hadn’t missed the way Ross’s gaze had lingered on a beautiful young woman seated at a nearby table. Was she Ross’s leman? A pang of something akin to jealousy shot through Gillian, even though she tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. She hoped his leman would keep MacKenna out of her bed.

  While remnants of the meal were being carried away, Gillian studied the blonde beauty from beneath long, feathery lashes. She was startled to realize the woman was gazing longingly at Ross.

  “What is that woman to you, MacKenna?” she asked, gesturing discreetly at Seana.

  “Which woman might that be, Gillian?”

  “Are you blind? The beautiful blonde who canna take her eyes off you.”

  “Ah, that one. Her name is Seana McHamish. Our clans are allies.”

  “Is she your lover?”

  “I willna lie to you, lass. She was my leman before I took you to wife. However, I no longer need a leman.”

  “Doona send her away,” Gillian advised. “I give her leave to take my place in your bend.”

  “Nay, wife, you will fulfill your duty in my bed and out.”

  Before Gillian could form a scathing retort, a group of entertainers entered the hall amid loud cheering. Tables were quickly cleared away to make room for the Gypsy musicians and dancers. Even Gillian clapped her hands. She adored music, especially wild Gypsy music.

  “My uncle was fortunate to find a compania of Gypsies who hadn’t gone south yet for the winter. I hope you like music.”

  “Gypsies are my favorite performers,” Gillian admitted.

  He grinned at her, the whiteness of his teeth startling her. Was there naught about the man that wasn’t perfect?

  “I am glad something I do pleases you.”

  The musicians began to play a lively melody while the dancers twirled and pranced about the hall. Swarthy men wearing dark clothing and brilliant-hued jackets, and women, their multicolored, bell-trimmed skirts swirling around their golden thighs, mesmerized Gillian with their energy and verve.