Laird of the Black Isle

by Paula Quinn

  His gaze fell over her tight nipples pushing against her shift. He ground his jaw, then looked away.

  Her heart faltered for a moment. Did he truly anticipate giving her up? Of course, why wouldn’t he? Nothing had changed.

  He shrugged, stretching his léine across his broad shoulders, and looked at her again. “Then one of us will likely die. I willna just fall on my knees and let him kill me when Annabel could be alive.”

  She wouldn’t let either of them die. And she wouldn’t give up on Lachlan. She had to change his mind. Every moment counted.

  He handed her the book and stepped away. When he leaned over the large bucket of boiled water and reached for a plate, Mailie pressed the book to her breast. He’d set up a second bucket of clean water and dipped the plate in. He flipped it over in his hand and began drying the plate with a cloth he’d snatched from a basket.

  He was cleaning their supper plates.

  “I can do that,” she said, moving toward him.

  “Why?” he asked, turning slightly to look at her. “I’m almost done.”

  And then what? He didn’t ask her to stay or to leave when he returned his attention to the plates. She thought it rude that he just left her standing there not knowing what to do. She decided for herself and sat in the settee.

  “Ye’re quite self-sufficient,” she pointed out. “I’d imagine ye have to be, what with no servants, only Ruth. Ye dinna even own a horse!”

  His soft laughter filled her ears before he spoke. “I have two legs to take me where I wish to go.”

  She wished they’d take him to the settee. “Ye laughed.”

  This is too dangerous and I am too tired.

  “I’ve been known to do so every now and then.” He turned to tell her, and dried his hands.

  “’Tis nice.” She smiled, and he dropped the cloth.

  “Aye, ’tis,” he agreed, and came to sit beside her.

  The settee was warm. She was warm. What was this unsettling feeling he produced in her? A feeling of comfort and ease amid thorns and thistle. She liked being with him, looking at him, speaking to him about books or reviling him while he tried not to smile. His nearness made her blood burn and clouded her thoughts.

  “Why did ye stay away all day?” she asked quietly. She wouldn’t tell him she missed him a little.

  “I was running.”

  Her heart beat madly, making her feel light-headed.

  “And now?”

  He shrugged and his smile faltered a bit. “We shall see.”

  The pounding of her heart had nothing to do with trying to convince him to save her, though she felt closer to achieving it than ever before. Despite the beast and its grumbling, he’d stopped running long enough to spend the evening with her and the children.

  Her blood rushed through her veins at his closeness. He was so big. All male. He smelled like pine, and fresh air, and soap. It enveloped her, along with his heat, making her head spin and her mind conjure images of decadent things. The size of him made her want to curl up against him, touch him, and discover how hard he truly was.

  “What else do ye do here all day besides chop wood and gather water?” she asked, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. When had she become so wanton?

  “I hunt, fish. I craft items fer the castle, like chairs, tables, beds, bookcases. Whatever is needed.”

  “Needed by who? There’s no one here but ye.”

  “Ruth keeps her eyes open fer me and lets me know whose table has grown too small fer their family or who needs a new bed fer a growing bairn.”

  “Aye.” She nodded at him. Was she dreaming? Was her beast, her dragon, telling her he worked at discovering who from his village needed certain furnishings and he supplied them?

  “What price do ye ask fer yer work? ’Tis verra sturdy.” She wiggled, and the settee didn’t budge. “And beautiful.” She ran her fingers over the smooth wooden edge and thick velvet. It was comfortable.

  “Nothing,” he told her, watching her fingers.

  She stopped moving them. His gaze lifted slowly to hers. She bit her lip at the way he made her belly burn.

  “Trees are free,” he told her, “and I dinna have much else to do.”

  Lord help her. Her beast was radiant against the hearth light. His jaw, cut so strong and determined, made her fingers ache to glide over it. Her gaze dipped to his muscular thighs encased in snug woolen breeches. She remembered his running beside their horse, running after her. She’d like to spread her palm over all that muscle and feel it tighten at her touch.

  She wanted to ask him what else he did for his tenants, but she was afraid she might fall in love with him if she heard anything else.

  “I know things will change if…when Annabel returns. I willna have time fer anything else.”

  Like her or the children asleep in his marriage bed upstairs. Mailie didn’t know why it made her want to weep and never stop. But it did. She wanted to go home, didn’t she?

  Of course she did, and she wouldn’t be going with Lachlan.

  “Why are ye sad, lass?”

  She could never tell him. He would think her mad. And she was!

  “Are ye still thinking aboot yer kin trying to kill me?”

  “Dinna be silly.” She pushed at his solid upper arm. He didn’t move. “My kin wouldna try to kill ye, ye fool. They’d simply do it.”

  “And that makes ye so gloomy?”

  She looked to the heavens for help. It did make her sad. She didn’t want to confess it to him. She didn’t have to. He knew it and he was enjoying teasing her. “It only makes me sad because there willna be anyone here to furnish the villagers’ homes.”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye while a silken smile crept over his mouth. “Ye’ve got quite a sassy mouth on ye, Mailie.”

  Despite the heated blood coursing through her and the prickling desire to stare at his lips…The top was a bit fuller, shaped like the carved wooden bow he’d worn across his back the morning he’d gone for a hunt. “Why do ye say that?” she asked. “Is it because ye dinna believe I’m bein’ sincere?”…The bottom was just as intoxicating, curled perfectly over a small shadow of dark hair. “Why else would I be sad if ye were gone?”

  “I canna think of any reasons, lass,” he admitted, turning his gaze and his smile from her. “’Tis why I asked.”

  She blinked out of her reverie and moved a bit closer. “What do ye mean ye canna think of any reasons? Ye’re truly no’ so terrible.”

  “But I am,” he said, turning to meet her gaze. “The blood of the thirteen men who killed my wife and daughter covered me. I didna bathe until I killed the last one. My scars healed this way because I gave them only my slightest attention. Some of them begged me fer their lives, and I enjoyed refusing. I wanted them all to beg before I killed them. I wanted them to understand why we were going to hell. I wasna sorry. I’m still not.”

  She shook her head and curled her feet under her rump. “Why are ye tellin’ me this, Lachlan? Why did ye tell me about goin’ home that terrible day and what it turned ye into? What are ye tryin’ to convince me of?”

  He entwined his long, broad fingers in his lap and looked at them. Mailie’s gaze followed. When he spoke again, she lifted her eyes to his downward lashes.

  “Ye dinna do what I did and not change,” he told her, finally meeting her gaze.

  “I know,” she said softly. She knew he was correct. If he ever married again, his wife was going to need to accept him with all his ghosts and faults.

  “I dinna know if I can return to who I was before that,” he admitted. “I canna be a husband again.”

  A husband? Why was he bringing that up? Was he thinking of taking a wife? Her? Her breath faltered. Imagines of being in his bed invaded her thoughts. But he wasn’t—

  “I dinna know if I can still be a father.”

  She wanted to reach out and cover his hands with hers as some of his scales fell away. She didn’t know why he shared his mo
st anxious thoughts with her and no one else, but she liked that he did.

  “’Tis bein’ a faither that will bring back yer heart, Lachlan.”

  He looked at her, and it felt like the very first time. “Why do ye care aboot my heart when it has decided a fate ye dinna want?”

  “Because I understand why ye did it, and I believe there is a good man somewhere under all yer bluster and brooding. Ye will no’ give me to a man who will make me miserable. Ye will find another way.”

  He smiled faintly. “I wish I shared yer faith in my heart, lass.”

  “Yer heart is intact,” she assured him, “or ye would no’ be helpin’ yer tenants.”

  “It fills my days, Mailie. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “Well, it doesna matter. Bein’ a faither will make a man oot of even the worst monster.”

  “A fairy tale,” he scoffed.

  “Have ye heard the tales of the Devil MacGregor? He is my grandsire.”

  “I’ve heard the tales of his personal war with the Campbells until he fell in love with one.”

  “Aye,” she sighed. “If Chaucer were alive, I would pen their story and send it to him.”

  “Why Chaucer?” His smile widened.

  “He wrote with a passionate quill. His characters defied status. Have ye read ‘A Knight’s Tale’ from The Canterbury Tales?”

  “Aye, let me chance a guess,” he teased. “Ye favored Palamon over Arcite to win Emily’s heart.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Palamon’s heart was true—and ye knew that already, else ye wouldna have guessed I’d choose him.”

  The way he smiled at her made the backs of her ears burn.

  No other man save her brother Luke could converse with her this way about books. It was quickly becoming one of her favorite things to do with Lachlan.

  “So the Devil MacGregor had a romantic life after he avenged his name.”

  “He still does. His wife and family love him verra much. But before he met my grandmother, before he went to war with the enemies of the MacGregors, he was taken to spend his life in a dungeon with his sister of five summers. He broke free as an adult and slaughtered the Earl of Argyll’s entire garrison with his sister curled upon his shoulders. Fer years, Aunt Maggie suffered night terrors aboot that day when her brother drenched her in blood. He became a monster, but the love of his family restored him.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment. Mailie thought she might have said something wrong. Then he tossed her a smile that made her want to throw herself across his lap and kiss him. “Ye think there’s hope fer me, then?”

  Oh aye, aye, she did think so. Hope that would no doubt be her downfall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lachlan swore an oath and jammed his thumb between his lips. Never…never in his life had he smashed his finger with a hammer while driving a nail through a wall. He glanced down from the chair he was standing on and scowled at William, who watched him with his hand trying to conceal his grin. His giggling was seemingly unstoppable.

  “Mailie said we shouldn’t say those words,” Lily scolded, looking up at him and then around the hall for Mailie.

  They were the cause of this. They’d been under his feet for days, distracting him now with all sorts of questions, none of which had to do with hanging sconces. The hound watching him from its place at Lily’s side was quiet now but had nearly knocked Lachlan’s chair over when it bounded happily through the hall, chased by a squealing six-year-old.

  “Aye.” Lachlan couldn’t help but brood. “Dinna tell her what ye heard, and I willna tell her that I saw ye with Ettarre yesterday, drinking water from the dog’s bowl.”

  He felt like hell after Lily swallowed and nodded, her eyes on him wide and dreadful.

  Damn it, what did he know of the sensitivities of a six-year-old girl? “I willna tell her anything, lass,” he grumbled, and set the nail up again. “Ye’ve nothing to fear from me. Yer brother does though if he continues to find my pain so amusing.” He slid his gaze to the lad and was thankful to see William’s hand fall to his side, his laughter ended.

  Lachlan continued his work and came close to his thumb two more times. This time it wasn’t the children who distracted him but thoughts of Mailie. It had been two days since he’d sat with her by the kitchen hearth, listening to her tell him of her grandsire, watching her lips as she spoke and smiled.

  Two days and he still couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Keeping himself unaffected by the close proximity of her body, the sweet, slightly breathless way she spoke of her grandparents’ tale, had been one of the most difficult challenges he’d faced in a long while. He had thought her beautiful when he’d first laid eyes on her, but somehow she’d grown even more alluring, more captivating.

  He had finally been defeated by her faith in him—and by the way her gaze constantly shifted to his mouth. Had she wanted him to kiss her? He’d wanted nothing more. A half dozen times he had to stop himself from sinking his fingers into her fiery tresses and pulling her into his lap for a kiss that would brand her to him for all time. Her nipples jutting upward through her shift had driven him mad with the desire to dip his head and take them into his mouth, between his teeth. He could think of nothing else for the past two days. He could barely speak to her without tripping over his words or dipping his traitorous gaze to her breasts or hips.

  When she’d spoken of Ranald Sinclair’s hands on her, Lachlan wanted to deliver his sword deep into the lord’s guts. If he didn’t give her over to the Earl of Caithness, he’d never have the chance to find out if Annabel still lived. How could he make such a choice?

  He’d resisted her because loving and losing her would destroy him. Because he’d most likely have to defend himself from her kin, and killing any of them would seal her hatred for him forever. He didn’t think her father or any of the MacGregors would let him live after what he’d done. He’d fight back, for Annabel’s sake, and he’d win. He didn’t care how many of them there were. He knew what he was capable of.

  He didn’t want any of it to happen. But it likely would. Kissing her would only make things worse. There could never be anything between him and Mailie, and that was fine with him. He didn’t want a wife.

  She’d be gone soon enough.

  “Greetin’s, everyone!” The front doors swung open and Ruth stepped inside. “Och, but that’s nice to say!”

  From his place on the chair, Lachlan looked heavenward.

  “Good morn to ye, Ruth!” Mailie called back from the kitchen, where she insisted on making them breakfast. “Children, Ruth is here!”

  Lachlan looked down at his audience and watched all three run off to greet her. He hoped for a few moments of silence to finish his work, but the noise grew only louder. Ettarre barked while Lily and Will ran around Ruth and asked her endless times what was in the bags she carried. Ruth’s laughter rang through the halls, and Lachlan realized he hadn’t heard the sound in years. It saddened him. They hadn’t been as close as he’d like in the past two years, for which he was to blame. She had stayed around to help him, and she did. He shared some things with her, but not all. She didn’t mind his silence. She was here when he came home to Avoch without his family. Here, while he wrestled his demons, saying little, but here. He loved her for it all.

  He’d like to hear her laugh more.

  Mailie charged out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Hell, she looked appealing in her stays and petticoats, her hair plaited at the temples and then woven into the thick braid hanging over her shoulder, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

  “Come taste my porridge and tell me what ye think.” She reached for Ruth’s arm and tugged her toward the kitchen. “I added figs and honey and a few other things.”

  Lachlan looked toward the group. Fig porridge? His belly growled and drew Ruth’s attention.

  “What are ye doin’ there, Lachlan?” Ruth called out, seeing him.

  “Tryi
ng to hang wall sconces.”

  Ruth turned a genuinely stunned expression on Mailie. “He’s lightin’ the halls?”

  Mailie nodded. “He has spent the last two days makin’ the sconces. All the darkness is unsafe and gloomy fer the children.”

  “And fer the older woman in the castle!” Ruth let her know.

  Mailie immediately frowned at him. “Why have ye no’ lit the halls fer Ruth?”

  “She never once asked!” Lachlan defended himself.

  Mailie shook her head at him as if his defense were as puny as William’s arms.

  “Come, Ruth. Come, children”—Mailie shooed them all along—“’tis time to eat.”

  Time to eat? Lachlan stood on the chair, watching them all make way for the kitchen. Where was his invitation? Why did he need one to eat in his own kitchen?

  “William,” he called out, stepping off the chair. When the lad hurried back to him, Lachlan gathered his tools and moved to follow the others. “Come and bring the chair.”

  He didn’t look back, even as he passed Mailie and Ruth, and Mailie glowered at him.

  “’Twill strengthen him,” he told her.

  She looked as if she wanted to say something but then nodded and stepped out of Will’s way when he staggered by her. The chair wasn’t very big, but it was heavy and sturdy enough to support Lachlan when he’d stood on it.

  William completed his task, passing Lachlan and entering the kitchen without complaint, earning him a wink and a nod from his laird.

  “Ruth,” Mailie said, entering next with Lily, “sit and let me serve ye a bowl. Lachlan, ye dinna mind standin’, do ye?”

  “Of course not,” he said, flashing Ruth a quick smile when she passed him and entered the kitchen next. She was going to start asking him questions soon. He’d seen it in her stunned gaze when he’d let Mailie bring the children inside, and a half dozen times after that. Ruth had known him for twenty-five of his twenty-six years. She would stay quiet only so long.

  He didn’t want to think about what he’d tell her. He didn’t know why he agreed to everything Mailie asked of him, or why he would likely keep doing so. Lust provoked men to do many things to satisfy their desires. Though he wanted to drag Mailie into his arms and feel her body yield to his, his willingness to please her was not provoked by lust.