Highlander's Torn Bride (Highlander's Seductive Lasses Book 2)

by Adamina Young

  “Aye,” Alexander said, appraising Ann and noting, with appreciation, the sternness in her gaze. “Twould be a pleasure to employ someone so highly recommended. I look forward to learning how a personal lady’s maid came to discover her talents for baking.”

  Beside him, Margaret reached up and twisted a coppery lock that had slipped from the pins around her finger. “Tis a short story. Ann’s mother worked in the kitchen, but I preferred her company at my side. Now, come on, I must show you around the house.”

  Ann stepped to the side and Alexander turned to nod his thanks, though he wished he hadn’t. Over Ann’s shoulder, glaring at him from his place beside the fire, was Gavin. Alexander was tempted to shrink back, to cower before the gaze that was more dangerously sharp than a new blade, but he did not allow himself. He would not allow himself. Instead, he let their eyes meet, forging their gazes together for a moment, before he turned away and followed Margaret inside.

  Margaret was already a few steps into the house, and she had turned so abruptly into a sitting room that Alexander might have missed her if he had held Gavin’s stare for another heartbeat. The room was large and filled with chairs wrapped in leather and tables carved to depict birds and flowers and other shapes that meant nothing more than “this was costly.” In other words, a typical nobleman’s sitting room.

  For all his bravado, a moment before whilst staring down an enemy, he now found that the act of being alone in a room with Margaret had set his nerves raging and thrashing, like the waves of the loch when trapped under a storm. She, however, was as calm as the creek wrapping around the property as she pointed out old and deceased relatives memorialized in the paintings that cluttered the wall. Wasn’t she supposed to be the maid and he the seasoned warrior?

  As she continued to lead him through the house, Alexander wondered what it was that he had possibly been worried about. The lass that was before him now was not who he would have chosen for himself, but he at least saw promise there behind her cool demeanor. Maybe, with time, he would even see her smile as brightly at him as she had smiled at Ann.

  “Your family seems to favor leather in your decor,” Alexander said, hoping to impress her with his observation when they entered a third room with leather furniture, while also hoping to ascertain whether or not the style pleased her so that he could either adopt or strike the material from his own décor.

  Margaret reached out her hand and ran it along the top of a leather chaise. “Aye. Twas a fashion born of convenience. My aunt on my father’s side was married to a leather merchant,” she finally said after her hand had run along its length, her voice soft and melancholic. Then, as if she was ridding herself of a disease, she straightened and continued, “They say he was prominent, but he was still just a merchant without a drop of superior blood. I do not ken why my aunt thought it wise to wed such a man.”

  Alexander may not have stumbled under Gavin’s glare, but this statement forced him back a step. Ah yes, he reminded himself while she spun away to continue her march through the house, you were worried because she came off as haughty and arrogant in her letter.

  A few rooms later, Alexander finally calm after receiving the stern reminder that a bonny appearance did not a bonny wife make, his stomach unleashed a growl so loud and commanding that Margaret stopped and stared at him with an expression of curiosity mixed with distaste. “Apologies, Laird Mackay. I should have assumed that you would be hungry after a day of travel. Shall we go see you fed?”

  “Twould be greatly appreciated,” Alexander replied, his hand resting on his stomach as if it could muffle any further noise.

  Margaret nodded and then glanced at the two doors that would have led them from the room, pursing her lips. After a second of hesitation, she led them through one, and then back through a maze of rooms before they finally arrived back in the same room from where they had just left.

  She scratched her head and grabbed a lock of hair to twist it around her finger. “Well, how about that? Not a single servant to be seen.”

  “Then,” Alexander said, hesitant, “canna we just go straight to the kitchens?”

  Her gaze rolled over to his. Her mouth was taut with impatience, but her eyes were searching his face wildly. It was nerves in her eyes, nerves that he had been hoping to see from her since the moment they had met. But why now of all times?

  “Dinna you ken where it is?” Alexander asked, his eyes narrowing, hoping that was not the reason.

  “Why should I?” Margaret replied. “Tis not as if I bake the bread.”

  “Then why did you offer to take me to the kitchens?”

  “I offered to see you fed, Laird Mackay. Do they not have servants in your castle? Good thing I’ll be bringing one of my own,” Margaret said, twirling on her heels with such speed that her heavy skirt actually billowed slightly around her.

  She marched them out of the house altogether, taking them around the exterior of the house, where a large collection of tables and benches were being assembled beneath a simple, white pavilion. Servants were running between the tables, scattering vases of roses and polished goblets.

  “Ann?” Margaret called out, and the woman suddenly appeared, rushing toward them and heading off any other servants who tried to come forward to assist them instead.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Would you please bring Laird Mackay something to eat?”

  Ann rushed away while Margaret and Alexander took two seats on the benches. As he sat, Alexander watched Ann rush from the door she had disappeared behind, walk several paces to the left, and then disappear into a different door. Before he could ask if anyone knew where the kitchen was, he noticed Rob and Kenna emerge from the very same doorway, each with a stack of bannocks in hand.

  “Why are they here?” Margaret asked, and Alexander turned back to see her staring at him.

  “They are the queen’s witnesses to our marriage. They were the queen’s first experiment at matchmaking and forcing political alliances,” Alexander said. “They were ordered to wed just before the Gordon Rebellion broke out in earnest. It worked out for them; they are annoyingly happy. Which, of course, makes the queen happy.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, since they get along rather well, the queen can be confident that if Lady Kenna ever hears word of another Gordon uprising, she will report it to her husband out of loyalty to him. He, then, will report it to the queen,” Alexander replied, though he felt silly giving the full explanation, for he did not presume to think that she cared about the political forces at work all around them.

  “So, they are not witnesses to us, but we are witnesses to them,” Margaret replied, tapping her finger on her arm and staring at the couple with a bit more thoughtfulness.

  Her words caught Alexander off guard, for it was far more insightful of a comment than he thought she was capable of. What she said was probably true: by sending the Frasers, the queen was showing Alexander and Margaret what she wanted from them. And, in an instant, Margaret had seen that. She was more formidable than he had thought.

  “Who are you, Lady Margaret?” Alexander asked, surprising himself by speaking the question aloud.

  “I am sure that you will find me to be exactly the woman you were expecting,” she said with a thin smile, as if that was supposed to reassure him. If only she knew that that had been the one thing he had not wished to hear.

  When Alexander had been properly fed on a small lunch of bread and cheese, followed by a delectable pastry stuffed with roasted apples of Ann’s own making, Margaret insisted on bringing him to his room so he could rest. The house had long, winding hallways of unadorned stone and, with no tapestries hung on the walls to absorb the sound, every step they took resulted in an echoed twin. It was an almost eerie sound, one that made Alexander want to look over his shoulder to see if the footsteps had manifested into some sort of haunting behind him. He imagined any ghost in this house would look exactly like Gavin.

  He wasn’t sure why he was so o
n edge, but he could most certainly determine that the reason lay in the silent beauty before him. His eyes roamed her, examining every point where the silk curved around her body, revealing just a hint of what may lay beneath. With a bit of a blush, he realized that he was poised to see more than just a hint soon enough, and that stirred a new feeling in him that attacked the place beneath his kilt. But, before his body could get too carried away, his mind reminded the rest of him of her less savory points; those things which his wandering eyes were refusing to see.

  Who the hell was Margaret Gunn? In one breath, a haughty, arrogant noblewoman, and, in the next, an intelligent enigma that was as immovable as a mountain. He wanted nothing more than to glean the truth of her, to dive into her deepest points as one dove into the sea in search of pearls. But she, as she was now, would never let him that far within her, not unless he did something grand to earn him some of her favor.

  A simple plan that was made more difficult when it came to the details. He hadn’t ever pursued a woman in earnest, for they had always been the ones pursuing him. But, if they hadn’t come to him so quickly, what could he have done to bring them to his side? What was the commonality between all the women he had known?

  “Margaret?”

  “Aye?” she responded, just barely turning her head back to him and not slowing her pace in the slightest.

  “I would like to provide you with a gift. Just something to commemorate the occasion of our union,” Alexander said, feeling a sudden puff in his chest. Perhaps the harsh lesson taught by women of his past would prove useful.

  “Hmm,” she said, her hum a low vibration that was made louder as it reverberated up and down the hall. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I must admit that there is nothing I could ask you to give.”

  “There is no need to be coy about it,” he said, rushing forward to step in front of her, stopping her where she stood. “Just tell me what you are hoping for.”

  “Tis not being coy if the answer is truly nothing,” she said, her brow furrowing.

  “But, it canna be nothing. Women always want something from men.”

  “Do we?” she asked, her brow shooting up while she crossed her arms and shifted so that she was leaning her shoulder up against the stone wall. It was a rather unladylike pose, yet it seemed so naturally to come to her that he barely even realized the wrongness of it.

  “Aye. Tis why you all jostle for the man with the fattest purse and the tallest castle. Some women prefer something they can hold, like an expensive bauble. Otherwise, something not seen but felt, like some favor or promise of protection or—you ken what I mean. Whatever you wish, though, I’ll be sure to provide.”

  “I am afraid I do not have any wish like that, but I will thank you anyway, as you revealing your thoughts on the inner workings of a woman’s mind has proven to be a gift in and of itself. I am otherwise perfectly satisfied.”

  “Are women ever satisfied with what they have? Tis my impression that women can never be satisfied, as they must rely on a man to give them everything they desire most,” Alexander said, unsure of why it was that her face was turning so red.

  “Well, Laird Mackay, I think you’ll find that I have already taken the things I desire most for myself,” she replied, the echo of each angry word coming back to hit him for a second time.

  Alexander’s eyes widened. How was this going so wrong? He had wanted to please her, to willingly surrender to her the one thing that he had never been willing to give any other woman. In his mind, it was a romantic gesture laced with realistic logic and understanding. Yet, here she was, hot-faced and fuming, pulling away from him as no woman ever had. He didn’t like it.

  “Wait,” he said, reaching out to grab her arm before she could put more distance between them. To his surprise, the arm beneath the green silk was not soft, but firm, with a thin curve of muscle that he had never known a woman to have.

  She looked down at her arm, where his curious hand still held her, then back up at him with an expression so stiff that he was sure it was only a mask hiding a firestorm of anger. With one quick pull, Margaret broke away from his grip with an ease that even some men couldn’t have accomplished.

  “Laird Mackay,” she said, stepping deliberately just out of his reach. “It has been excellent to make your acquaintance. You’ll find your room at the end of this hall.”

  Somehow, she made even her curtsey look angry and, with a quick spin on her heels, she finally accomplished storming away. Alexander watched her go, the unexpected firmness of her arm a tingling memory on one hand and the unexpected roughness of her hand—for he was sure now that he hadn’t imagined it—on the other.

  Who the hell was Margaret Gunn?

  At this point, all Alexander knew for certain about her was that she was unlike any woman he had ever met before. And, to him, that made her perfect.

  3

  Margaret slammed the door to her room so hard that the painting on the wall shook and slipped from its place, forcing Margaret to rush forward to slap it against the wall before it hit the floor. She glanced up to see Ann holding a basket of laundry, her nose creased as she smiled and tried to contain a laugh.

  “So, how is he?” Ann pried while Margaret did her best to put the painting back into place.

  “I forgot where the damn kitchens were,” Margaret replied as she took a few cautious steps back from the painting, as if it was now so precarious that her steps would be enough to make it fall for a second time. “He probably thinks I am a bloody fool.”

  Ann sputtered a laugh. “I thought that may have been the case.”

  Margaret sank herself into the chair, which she now was noting was made of leather. Her uncle must have been her father’s best customer. Since Alexander had pointed it out, she couldn’t help but see leather all throughout the house. In a way, she was grateful to Alexander, for she hadn’t felt her father’s presence so strongly around her since he had passed.

  Alexander Mackay had been doing alright for himself until the end. For years, Margaret had heard stories about the cold and ruthless Mackays, and when she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man riding down the hill, she had wondered if it was too late to steal one of her uncle’s Clydesdales and make a retreat back to Thurso. But then, once he had dismounted and stood before her, she hadn’t been so afraid. How could she have been when he quivered before her like a mouse quivered before a cat, unable to stay still or show her a single pinch of confidence? If he was a fearsome warrior, as many said he was, he certainly knew how to hide it.

  Margaret hadn’t minded thinking of him as a weaker man. At least she did not fear that sort of a man. She may have even come to care for him in an unromantic sort of a way if he had just kept his mouth shut and not proven to be the sort of noble lad that used his wealth to force relationships.

  Isobel should have stayed, Margaret thought to herself. She’d think him perfect.

  Ann came over and pressed a goblet of chilled water into her hand and then settled herself beside her. “So, will he do? I must admit, he seemed kind enough. And, if ye do not mind me saying so, he was handsome enough.”

  Margaret pursed her lips. Ann’s assessment on his looks were not false. Alexander Mackay may have been one of the more handsome men Margaret had ever laid eyes upon, with brown hair that had been lightened to a point just shy of blond from long days in the sun and clear hazel eyes that looked more golden than brown. Though he was not as broad-shouldered as Rob Fraser, he was just as tall and far lither. And his smile, the few times she dared to look at it, showed off a pair of dimples over a chiseled jawline. They were not, perhaps, the classically impeccable looks that the Greeks would have memorialized in stone, but they were the looks that would make any number of women swoon.

  She looked up at Ann, who seemed to know exactly what she was thinking about, and felt her cheeks beginning to burn. “Yes, he is handsome. But I’ll give him no more qualifications to be my husband than that.”

  “Why not?”


  “Because,” Margaret started, thinking of their argument in the hallway again with rising anger, “he expects me to be some mewling maid who begs for his noble assistance at every turn.”

  “So, he expects Isobel?” Ann replied.

  “Aye,” Margaret said, not sure why that made her feel a bit sick to her stomach. She wasn’t planning on letting him rile her this way. “And I am afraid that I am getting his hopes up, for I kept saying things that I imagined Isobel would say whenever he seemed about ready to realize that I am not the Laird’s daughter. But I canna do that forever. I would go mad.”

  “As would I,” Ann replied.

  “You ken, Gavin never had such expectations. Gavin gave me his own clothes to help me be anything but a silly lass like Isobel, rather than put me in a position where I must be like her.”

  Ann sighed. “Why must you compare him to Gavin?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Margaret asked, a bit perplexed that Ann would dismiss the comparisons so quickly. Who else would she compare him to? Alan? That was hardly fair, for Alan made even the most deplorable souls look like angels.

  “Because they are different people, Margaret, with different approaches to the world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for starters, Gavin—” Ann started before stopping and pressing her hands together. Then, with a deep breath, she restarted. “Look, ye are a merchant’s daughter, both in reality and in mind. Never have I seen you make a choice based on yer wants. Rather, ye make a choice based on what makes the most sense at the time.”

  “Your point?”

  “Is Gavin a choice you made because you wanted him? Or was Gavin a choice you made because it made more sense to rely on him than to rely on Alan?”

  Margaret scoffed. It was a ridiculous question, with an answer so clear that she wanted to declare from the roof of her uncle’s house—or to shout through the kitchen, since finding it may have been a more impressive feat at this point. At the very least, Margaret would declare her resolve to Ann, yet, when she tried to form the words, nothing came to her.