by Julia London
Good God, the man was insufferable. He knew very well what had her cross. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and turned away from him, crossing her arms as she moved aimlessly across the room. “How long must we remain here before your mother is convinced she’s done her duty?”
“Five minutes ought to suffice,” he said. “The impropriety of leaving you alone with a notorious bachelor will undoubtedly trump her desire to see me wed.”
Daisy groaned. She moved to the window and peered out at the bailey. Cailean joined her there, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. His fingers touched, then tangled with hers. The spark shot up her arm, and she sighed inadvertently. Daisy leaned her head against his shoulder. She ought to slap his fool hand away...but she didn’t. She ought not to rest her head on his shoulder...but she did. Her desire for his touch tugged at her heart more than her exasperation with him.
He touched the small of her back, then slid his hand around to her waist and drew her into his side. No, it was too much—it only served to ratchet up her longing to make it unbearable. Daisy pushed away and turned to face him. Cailean turned, too, his blue eyes moving over her face, lingering on her lips.
“What do you want of me?” she whispered.
His gaze moved lower, to her décolletage, and he traced a knuckle over the swell of her breast. “That is a dangerous question and one I canna answer.”
“I don’t understand you, Cailean,” she said plaintively.
He winced. “Aye, it’s complicated.”
She expected him to explain himself, or to try to convince her that there was nothing to understand. “Complicated,” she said irritably. “You say things that make me want to despise you, and yet I think you want to kiss me right now.”
“I do,” he murmured. “In the most violent way. I am, in fact, besieged with want.”
She tilted her head back and lifted her chin, so that her mouth was a breath from his. “Then why don’t you?”
His breath was warm on her lips. He cupped her face with his hand, caressed her lip with his thumb, and she could feel her heart softening. “For the love of God I donna know why no’, but I willna kiss you, Daisy. I want only to help you...but I canna help that I desire you, as well.”
She couldn’t bear this. She couldn’t bear all the longing for him when he wouldn’t reciprocate, when he wanted her to marry Robert and be done with it. She jerked her face from his hand and stepped back. “You are tiresome, Cailean. Help someone else.” She walked across the room and opened the door, sweeping out of it. She’d only taken a step or two when she realized she had no idea how to return to the main hall. She stepped back inside the room.
Cailean was still at the window, still standing where she’d left him. His head was down, and he’d folded his arms tightly across his chest.
“Cailean?”
His head jerked up, and for the slender wisp of a moment, he looked incredibly hopeful. But Daisy would show him no mercy—she was too angry, too frustrated. “Will you please show me back to the great room? I want to find my son.”
Something flickered in his blue eyes and the hope disappeared, buried under the insouciance, the casual indifference that took its place. “Aye, of course,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CAILEAN HAD WANTED to kiss Daisy—more than wanted, had burned with that desire—but something had shadowed his thoughts, something he couldn’t quite grasp.
Was it duty? No. It wasn’t his duty to protect her. He did not answer to duty.
A resentment of his mother’s never-ending attempts to see him wed? No. He didn’t begrudge his mother that natural desire.
What bloody arse didn’t take a kiss when offered? This was the second time he’d failed to act, and he was a man who never failed when such an opportunity presented itself. Nor had he failed to keep his sensibilities and feelings far above the fray of his physical wants since that day fifteen years ago when Miss Beauly had refused him.
What had happened to that man? And what in damnation was that thought in his head he couldn’t quite drag into consciousness?
Aye, he did feel himself under siege with irreconcilable thoughts and feelings. It was troubling—a kiss in his father’s study was certainly not as inflammatory as what he’d done in that potting shed. He’d taken great liberties with Daisy, clearly—and now suddenly he was concerned with what, pray tell?
He had no time to study this unexpected alteration to his conscience, thank the saints, for he might have hung himself from the rafters. He might yet. But he was needed to open the games in his father’s stead.
Cailean did not see Daisy that afternoon. He was surrounded by clan and fellow Highland guard members as he joined the caber toss and the stone throw. The physical exertion and camaraderie of men he knew and admired helped him to push down the troubling thoughts of Daisy. The lingering feeling of discomposure was successfully drowned with several tankards of ale.
He didn’t see Daisy, but he did stumble upon Ellis. There was an area in the meadow set aside for children to play games that emulated those in which the adults engaged. Ellis watched from the side in the company of Miss Hainsworth. He was dressed formally in spite of the heat, and was clearly not a participant.
Cailean squatted down beside Ellis. The lad’s face lit with a smile. Cailean clapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Why do you no’ participate, then?”
Ellis’s smile faded. “I don’t...” He looked at the other lads. “I don’t know how,” he said.
“You’ll no’ learn if you donna play. Come,” he said and took Ellis by the hand, walking into the field where boys were lined up to participate in the stone put, whereby they launched a smooth stone from their palm and measured the distance of their throw. He asked the other lads to allow Ellis to participate.
“But he’s a Sassenach,” a ruddy-faced ginger-haired lad said in Gaelic. “My da said I’m to stay away from them.”
Cailean squatted down before that young man and said quietly, “You may tell your da that Lord Chatwick is our guest, Sassenach or no’, and if he doesna welcome him as he ought, I will rip him from limb to limb.”
The color drained from the lad’s face. “Aye, laird,” he said.
Cailean stayed to ensure that they did indeed include Ellis. One of them was kind enough to instruct him how to throw the stone. Ellis was wretched at it, but he didn’t seem to care—his face was awash in happiness, and he was eager to please. He congratulated each throw to the point Cailean laughingly told him that their throws couldn’t all be as good as that.
He moved to the other side of the field while keeping a watchful eye on Ellis, and was watching him have another go at the stone put when he saw the flash of light blond hair. He turned and saw Daisy standing between her uncle and Spivey, watching the men at their stone toss. Spivey rested his hand on the small of her back, and he leaned over her shoulder and said something that made her smile brightly. Maybe she even laughed.
Cailean felt a strange constriction in his chest. He turned away from the sight of her. He had no right to feel anything. Cailean walked in the opposite direction and away from her, in search of something that could silence his thoughts.
He found himself at the games once again and noticed that the backhold wrestling event was about to commence. Wrestling. That was it, that was exactly what he needed. Let him release his frustrations by slamming a man or two into the ground. All in good fun, of course, or at least he’d tell the unlucky lads he beat that was so.
He joined the men lining up to compete. There were ten in all, vying for the prize of a kiss from Aileen Ramsey, a bonny young woman. The last man standing would have the pleasure of receiving her kiss. Aileen stood on a platform, swinging her skirts this way and that, calling out encouragement to the men who stepped in line to wrestle.
Cailean was pitted a
gainst men he’d trained—all of them quite good if he was allowed that bit of self-commendation. As he waited for the game to begin, another man entered the competition—the one they called the Mountain. He was a head taller than Cailean and a good bit wider. Cailean almost smiled when he saw him. His mood was not precisely competitive—it was more lethal than that.
The first matches went quickly; Cailean pinned his opponents in a matter of seconds. Round they went, winnowing the number of contestants down to the last few men who consistently managed to keep their feet. Each round, Cailean brought his opponent to the ground with a roar, but with each successful win, the roots of his agitation only sank deeper.
The competition finally came down to two men—Cailean and the Mountain, who had dispatched his opponents like small children. A large crowd had gathered around them now, and someone had thrown a hat onto the ground to collect the wagers.
They were called to the center of the ring. Cailean moved to take his position, and he happened to catch sight of Daisy with Spivey standing apart from the crowd, watching. Her gaze, cool and distant, met his. Unaffected. English.
Cailean ignored her and turned to his opponent. “I mean to win,” Cailean said to the Mountain.
“Aye, but you will no’,” the Mountain said, grinning.
They locked their arms around each other’s back, and the warden of wrestling called for the start.
Cailean expected to lose, and he hardly cared if he did. He only hoped it was a painful loss, that his battered and bruised body would be slow to get up, but that this swelling of infatuation, or whatever the bloody hell it was that had taken up residence on his chest, would be gone. He wanted the Mountain to squeeze the air from his body, to knock the infatuation from his veins.
But something miraculous happened.
The Mountain began to struggle against him. Cailean’s strength, stoked by old and new frustrations, poured out of him. With a guttural cry, he managed to knock the Mountain off his feet and pin him to the ground.
The crowd roared with delight.
The game warden called the match in favor of Cailean. He stood up, offered his hand to the Mountain.
“Aye, you’ve won, lad,” the Mountain said congenially, and he slapped Cailean so hard on his back that he very nearly went down to his knees.
The gathered crowd was frenzied now, shouting his name. He turned his back to them and marched up to where Aileen Ramsey stood on a box. He couldn’t say why he did what he did, but he lifted the woman off the box, threw his arm around her back, dipped her backward and bloody well kissed her.
The crowd cheered wildly.
Cailean felt nothing for it, but when he lifted the lass upright, she looked at him with a stunned expression. And then a glorious smile.
Aye, then, all was not lost. He was still a man after all.
* * *
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, fires were lit around the meadow ahead of clouds thickening in the east. The musicians picked up their pipes and began to play, and the country dancing commenced for those who had traveled to the feill. Arran Mackenzie’s clan and Highland nobility retreated to the castle—they would dance in the great hall.
Cailean dressed formally for the evening in a coat and waistcoat, a plaid sash across his chest pinned with the clan’s emblem, and a sporran around his waist. The hall gleamed with the light from two hearths and dozens of candles. A long line of Mackenzies and guests had already formed at the sideboard, which was laden with roasted beef and traditional Scottish pots, such as haggis, turnips and potatoes. Servants wandered through the crowd, carrying ewers of whisky and ale, refilling cups.
Cailean made his way to the dais and sat next to Rabbie, who’d had a wee bit to drink, judging by the way he sat, slung over a seat like woolen blanket. He looked sourly at the crowd.
“What has you cross?” Cailean asked, sitting next to him.
Rabbie lifted his chin as if to indicate something; Cailean followed his gaze and saw Daisy, her uncle and Captain Spivey. They were seated at a table with Somerled.
Diah, she looked brilliant tonight. The edges of her bodice had been embellished with silk rosebuds that matched those on the ribbon around her neck. Her gown was the color of her eyes. Somerled was leaning toward her, as if sharing a secret with her and her uncle. Spivey looked as sour as Rabbie.
“What then, do you no’ see?” Rabbie snapped. “His musket shot is in your flank yet.”
Four years ago, Cailean had been grazed by a musket ball fired from the gun of an English sailor. He’d been moving a ship through a particularly dangerous part of the French coast, trying to slip past the naval ship in heavy fog while Aulay sailed north. It was a dangerous thing to do, as Cailean and his men couldn’t see more than a few feet in that soupy fog. But they had sailed that coastline for years, and had crept along, knowing that if they didn’t, when the fog lifted, they’d be a sitting target for the English naval ship.
As they could not see the Scottish ship, the English captain had decided not to fire a canon, probably thinking he’d waste good ammunition. Later, Cailean and Aulay had reasoned that one ambitious sailor had fired blindly, hoping to hit something to inform the English ship where they were. It was a miracle that Cailean and their crew had remained silent when he’d been grazed, and had managed to slide past undetected.
Cailean shrugged. “It was no more than a burn, aye? And it wasna him.”
Rabbie snorted. “Does it matter?”
“Aye, it matters,” Cailean said calmly. “He’s harmless. He seeks his own fortune now.”
Rabbie looked at him with surprise. “Do you really believe it? Will you believe it until a ship arrives in our cove, if no’ at Arrandale as we sit, waiting like fat geese?”
“We’ve men there,” Cailean pointed out.
Rabbie rolled his eyes at his older brother. “They may no’ come today, Cailean. But they will come. One of theirs is dead, aye? They’ll no’ allow you to rest now that they know where you are.” He signaled one of the servants by lifting his empty tankard. “He is a spy. Mark me.”
Cailean wasn’t as pessimistic as his brother. Of course they had to be careful. They always had to be careful. But this was a long way for the English to come for one man. They’d not take ships from the seas between England and France for a free trader. But neither was Cailean naive. He looked toward the table again, and he inwardly started when he caught Spivey staring at him.
He suddenly stood, kicking his chair out of his way and startling his little brother.
“Where are you going?” Rabbie asked.
Cailean didn’t answer. He didn’t know, precisely. Why in God’s name had that barmy Englishwoman come to Scotland at all? She’d succeeded only in making trouble for them and saddling herself with the likes of Spivey. Diah, was he the best she hoped to do? It angered him. A woman like Daisy Bristol deserved much better than Spivey.
Cailean walked through the crowd, pausing to speak to people who intercepted him. Pressing on, he reached the table where Daisy was apparently having a bloody grand time of it, judging by the way her head tilted back with gay laughter at something Somerled had said.
“Mackenzie!” Somerled said grandly.
Daisy stopped laughing and turned, glancing up at him with a shine in her eyes that he recognized. The lady had imbibed a wee bit of whisky.
Not Spivey—he surged to his feet, glaring at Cailean.
“Feasgar math,” Cailean said curtly. He held out his hand to Daisy. “Lady Chatwick, will you dance with me?”
She blanched. “Oh, I...ah... I’m not familiar with the style of dancing.”
“It’s simple enough,” he said and impatiently gestured for her to take his hand. “Naugh’ more than a wee bit of skipping about.”
Daisy stared at his hand, clearly debating how she might blatantly
refuse him.
“The lady does not wish—” Spivey started, but Daisy suddenly came to her feet.
“Yes,” she said and put her hand in Cailean’s. She smiled at the captain and said, “He is our host.”
As if she needed his permission.
Spivey smoldered...but in a very different way than Cailean was smoldering inside. He closed his fingers tightly around Daisy’s, lest she have any notion of changing her mind. Without another look at her companions, or before Spivey could challenge him to a duel—as Cailean guessed he very much wanted to do, and would have, had he not feared for his own life among so many Mackenzies—he led Daisy to the part of the hall cleared for dancing.
“I must warn you that I am not a very good skipper,” she said.
“You will survive it.” He noticed how many in the hall turned to look at them. Some of the expressions were disapproving—there was no love of English here, no matter that Lady Mackenzie was herself English. Some of the looks were admiring—she was beautiful; anyone could see that she was. All of them were curious, suspicious and cool.
He escorted her into the line of dancers, put his hand to the small of her back, held her other hand overhead and said, “You’re still cross, are you?”
“Quite,” she said emphatically. “I’d not have danced at all had it not been for...” Her voice trailed off.
Had it not been for what? “How long do you intend to be cross, then?” Cailean demanded as they waited for the music to begin.
“I don’t know. At least a fortnight. Quite possibly forever.”
“Aye, but that is too long. I will allow a few days of it, no more.”
Someone brushed past her, and Daisy stumbled. Her heel mysteriously connected with his ankle, and rather hard at that. “Oh. Pardon,” she said dramatically. And then, “You do not have the privilege of decreeing how long I am allowed to remain cross, and now that you have, I am determined to be cross even longer.”
“Diabhal,” he muttered.
