To Desire a Highlander Read online

  All was at peace.

  Until the arrival of Lady Lorna.

  Gillian dashed at her cheeks, as discreetly as she could.

  “My father has much on his mind.” She turned back to the room, hoped the shadows would hide any telltale sheen in her eyes. “He does forget himself.”

  “He was clever enough to bind us this night.”

  “He has a way of turning things in his favor. Some say it’s the MacGuire charm. All our menfolk have it, a gift to make people do what they wouldn’t otherwise. Men and women fall over backward to please them, doing their will without even knowing.”

  She waited as a gust of wind wailed past the tower. “They charm everyone.”

  “They did no’ charm me.” He gave her a hard look. “For sure, no’ your father.”

  “I do not believe he set out to win your esteem.” She didn’t say the aim was to be rid of her. “The MacGuire charm works in many ways. Some call it the MacGuire luck. How else would my father hold the affection of his new young wife? Lady Lorna is younger than I am, yet she stays abed with him for days, and—”

  Gillian drew a sharp breath, heat again surging up her neck, onto her face. She couldn’t believe she’d voiced such intimacies. Or that she’d allowed herself to be led so far off track. Perhaps Devorgilla of Doon, the half-mythic cailleach legended to have bestowed the MacGuire charm on the clan so many centuries ago, had also gifted the scoundrel before her with a magical allure?

  An ability to fuddle female wits!

  Many swore the great Devorgilla aye lived, so it wouldn’t surprise her.

  “If you were no’ an innocent, you’d ken that even a man of age is capable of satisfying a woman.” He came toward her again, so much dark, masculine ruggedness rolling off him that her heart beat wildly.

  He gave her a slow, roguish smile, as if he knew. “Truth is, the greater a man’s experience, the more pleasure will be enjoyed by his bedmates.”

  “You, sir, are overbold.” Gillian was sure he knew all about satisfying women.

  He had that look about him.

  “Bold, and…” Magnificent enough to set a girl’s heart aflame, to haunt her dreams forever. She released an exasperated breath. “Too filled with swagger, too fond of drawing that sword at your hip.”

  “That may be true.” An edge returned to his voice, his smile fading.

  Yet even with such a hard mien, he stole her breath. His face was strong, his scar so appealing it was almost a secret weapon. Something about his dark eyes made her heart race. She’d felt the astonishing power of him when he’d crushed her to him, his hard-muscled chest like unyielding steel, so much caged restraint thrumming through him. When he’d whispered against her ear, she’d shivered. Just now, her fingers itched to stroke the gleaming silk of his thick, black hair. Regardless of who he was, or wasn’t, everything about him quickened her pulse. Even his scent, so warm and rich, with hints of the sea, clean wool and leather, and the cold night air, stirred feelings that set her insides aflutter.

  He was unlike any man she’d ever met.

  And so like everything she desired.

  What a shame he was so false, empty as a hollowed tree.

  She lifted her chin, glad she’d seen through him.

  “Why did you lie about remembering Skog at Sway?” She held his gaze, determined to have answers. “You haven’t denied it and can’t.”

  “Did you ne’er think I had more on my mind than the dogs slinking about your father’s hall?” He stepped closer, slid his thumb down her cheek, over her lower lip. “Even so young, you tempted me.”

  Gillian bristled, the lie a slap in her face.

  She narrowed her eyes, not suspiciously, but accusingly. “Are you still saying you’re Donell MacDonell, Laird of Laddie’s Isle?”

  “I am keeper of this place, aye.” He didn’t blink.

  “Any marauder could drop anchor here and make such a claim.”

  His expression hardened. “I am nae common thief, lady.”

  “You could be worse.” Her tone was cool. “A broken man without a clan, an outlaw, even a murderer, a traitor to our land—”

  “See here, lass.” He gripped her shoulders, made an irritated sound. “Even here in the Hebrides, sheltered from the rest of the realm, you surely ken things are no’ always as they seem?” He looked into her eyes, his gaze fierce. “There are matters I cannae tell you. Nae, things I willnae tell you.”

  “I only ask your name.” Gillian broke free and stepped back, holding out her arm to stop him when he again started toward her. “Why you are here, claiming—”

  “I have every right to this isle.”

  “Skog’s full name is Skogahverfi.” Gillian glanced at her pet, glad he still slept. It wouldn’t have been good for him to witness her agitation.

  “Your dog has naught to do with this.”

  “He does.” She turned back to him, annoyed that despite all she knew, she still felt so powerfully drawn to him. “Skog is why I know you’re lying. He is called after his home in Iceland, for he was the sole survivor of a shipwreck at Sway.

  “He washed ashore with a seaman who only lived long enough to let us know that the downed ship hailed from Skogahverfi. I gave Skog that name and nursed him back to health, caring for him day and night. He was no whelp, yet you didn’t blink when I said I’d had him since he was weaned.

  “That proves you are a liar.” She could feel her indignation rising, living outrage inside her. “You are not Donell MacDonnell.”

  For a long moment he just looked at her, taking in her words.

  “See here, lass. I ne’er set out to mislead you.” He pulled a hand down over his beard. He sounded grieved, but his tone quickly hardened. “There are matters—”

  “Pretending to be my betrothed is not a ‘matter,’ it is willful deception.” She poked a finger into his broad, mail-covered chest. “Who, and what, are you?”

  “I am myself.” He looked at her in a way that sent chills rippling through her. “You and your father schemed to see us paired, and so you stand under my care. All that you now do concerns me.”

  “It needn’t. I had no part in this.”

  “Everything I see says differently, including your too-large, moth-eaten cloak.” He flicked a glance over the mantle. “Had I known, I’d have given you a better cloak from my own supply stores.”

  “I don’t want another.” She didn’t need this one.

  She did adjust its heavy folds, knowing the cloak’s voluminous length served her well, shielding her from the stranger before her. The mantle was Gowan’s, an ancient but well-loved garment he used on sea journeys. He claimed he’d inherited it from his great-grandfather, hence the mantle’s worn wool and frayed edges. Gillian meant to return it to Gowan’s travel pouch as soon as the man claiming to be Donell left her room.

  But he was walking slowly around her now, appearing anything but ready to make an exit. “You shall receive a new cloak all the same,” he said, casually as if they were discussing the weather. “I’ve done much in my life. A few things I’m no’ proud of.” He threw her a look, his gaze sharp. “I’ll no’ have the freezing death of a chieftain’s daughter added to my sins.”

  “I wouldn’t freeze if the seas rose around us and this very tower turned to ice.” Gillian stood straighter and put back her shoulders. “Gowan told you true. I do love raw weather, in all its bracing forms. I’ve no need of a two-finger-thick woolen mantle to warm me.” She glared at him, her pride stinging. “A long, noble lineage doesn’t mean one’s blood thins.

  “We of the Hebrides are of good, sturdy stock. We have stout hearts and we thrive when cold winds blow, when the sea churns.” She wished she could draw herself up even taller, but Gowan’s cloak was too heavy.

  “Such a spirited lass, and blessed by such hardihood.” He who wasn’t Donell strolled over to her, touching his fingers to the pulse at her throat. “Yet you drape yourself in—”

  “Not lies.” Gillian st
ood her ground, ignoring how her heart thundered. The way his caress slid through her, sending tingly awareness across her skin. “You’re maneuvering away from all that matters.”

  She met his gaze, knew her eyes were blazing. “I’d have your name. That’s the least you can give me, if you refuse to say why you’re here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Roag went to the little chamber’s window and braced a hand against the cold stone of its thick-walled edge. Lady Gillian truly had chosen the tower’s bleakest room. He stared out at the dark water, wishing she wasn’t here at all. But, she was. And he couldn’t ignore her. Or the complications caused by her presence.

  They were many.

  Worse, he didn’t know what to do with her.

  “I’m waiting to hear your name,” she said behind him, her tone impatient. “Better yet, I’d appreciate your reason for this farce.”

  Grinding his teeth, Roag left the window and went back to stand in front of her.

  “I didnae come here for a handfast, that’s certain.” He scowled at her. He could feel his temper building, struggled against an eruption. He wasn’t a man to unleash his anger on women. But the minx had him in a corner. And he loathed feeling so trapped.

  How could he tell her his name?

  He couldn’t.

  Indeed, he was oath-sworn to his King not to. He’d agreed to swear he was MacDonnell even if his sealed lips meant his death.

  For sure, he daren’t reveal his reason for sailing to Laddie’s Isle. His life wasn’t his own when he embarked on a Fenris mission, King and Scotland always weighing heavier than any personal need or wish. Vows had been made, his honor at stake.

  Still…

  “Damnation.” He tipped back his head, stared up at the ancient, rough-stoned ceiling. He could almost feel it swooping down on him, joining forces with the room’s barren walls to press in upon him from all sides, squeezing his heart and soul. An inescapable vise that squashed all he believed, leaving him in a chill, dark void. The kind that would plague him for all time coming, always reminding him that he’d broken the one tenet he held above all others.

  Honor women, always.

  Never in his life had he distressed one.

  It didn’t sit well with him to do so now.

  Even so, he gripped the vixen’s chin. A muscle jumped in his jaw and he hoped to the gods she didn’t see. “Trust me, sweet. You dinnae want to hear my name or my business.”

  “You err. I am most interested.”

  Releasing her, he shook his head. “You’d regret the knowledge.”

  “Then tell me of the man you’re claiming to be.” She held his gaze, her tone challenging. “If I’ve to expect the real Donell MacDonnell to come seeking me, I’d rather know now.”

  “He poses you nae threat.” Roag spoke true. “Your betrothed drowned trying to escape the Isle of Man.”

  She didn’t blink. “So you admit your deception?”

  “I’ll own I am no’ Donell MacDonnell, aye.” Roag glanced at the window arch, the sharpening wind seeming to scold him. The half-moon followed suit, glaring at him through the clouds, accusing him of becoming all the cravens he’d ever reviled for their callous handling of women.

  He despised liars.

  Until this moment, his duties had never made him feel like one. Hadn’t he acted for Scotland’s greater good? The false names and cast-voices were necessary tools to see the King’s will done, his various roles chosen carefully by the King’s own brother, Alexander Stewart, the Wolf of Badenoch and leader of the Fenris.

  No man could fault him, or would dare. Not if he loved his country.

  But a woman?

  Roag set his jaw, clenched his hands at his sides. His next words would change his world forever, dashing everything he’d worked so hard to build. The reputation he’d never dreamed to achieve, having been born a lowly court bastard, spending his boyhood nights on a pallet of straw in a corner of Stirling Castle’s kitchens. Yet he’d crawled and struggled and fought his way to the top, earning a place in the kingdom’s most elite secret order.

  The Brotherhood of the Fenris was his life. He served well, was one of the few ever invited to the Wolf’s own lair, far away in the northern Highlands.

  Such trust wasn’t given lightly.

  And he appreciated every bleeding ounce of it, was sure he also held the earl’s friendship. More than once, the King had placed his life in Roag’s hands, knowing he was a man of his word, his loyalty unbending.

  Never had Roag defied him.

  Doing so was unthinkable.

  When a man was stripped bare, his honor was all that remained.

  Now he was about to soil his, irrevocably.

  Yet when he looked at the lass before him, seeing the spirit, and hurt, in her lovely green eyes, he had no choice.

  Not if he wished to sleep at night.

  Lady Gillian, his handfasted bride, by rights or nae, was about to learn who he was and why he’d left Stirling to sail to this blighted spit of rock in the middle of these even more forsaken waters.

  It was an admission that would be her damning.

  “I am Roag, my lady.” He made her a slight bow, some of the weight sliding from his shoulders.

  He’d abhorred deceiving her.

  “Only Roag?” She tilted her head, looking at him suspiciously. “Have you nae clan name?”

  “For sure I do.” He gave her what he knew was one of his most carefree smiles. “But unlike most men, I’m no’ aware of whose blood to claim. I am a bastard. The baseborn get of a nameless mother and father, born and raised at the fine court of Stirling Castle.

  “So Roag it is, and ever shall be.” He shrugged, comfortable as aye in his name and station. “Some folk call me Roag the Bear.”

  Her gaze flicked over him. “Because of your size?”

  “So it is.” Roag inclined his head in acknowledgment, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “The by-name is also for my brawn.” He drew back his plaid, showing her his powerfully muscled arm. The silvered bands that graced them had each been a gift from the King for a particularly difficult feat, royal rewards for acts that could only have been accomplished by a highly skilled, well-trained warrior of immense strength.

  “So you wear warrior rings. Your overlord values you.” She didn’t look as impressed as he’d have hoped.

  Instead, she paced back and forth, tapping a finger to her chin as she rounded the little room. “Can it be, Roag the Bear, that you stole those armbands?”

  “Can it be, lass, that your father wanted rid of you because of your peppered tongue?” Roag yanked his plaid into place, brushed at the folds.

  Not even flinching, she held his gaze, her expression cool as spring. “Perhaps you heard of Donell MacDonell’s demise and came here hoping to profit from his uninhabited tower, his title as laird and keeper of this isle? Fierce warrior that you are, you didn’t expect anyone to oppose your claim.”

  Roag almost snorted.

  She’d nearly guessed his mission. She just didn’t realize that his guise wasn’t aimed at lining his own purse, but at serving Scotland. He was here to protect the weal of every man, woman, and child in the kingdom.

  She rounded on him, beside her sleeping dog. “It must’ve been a great shock to find a bride and her family waiting to greet you.”

  It was a disaster. “That is true.”

  “How terrible for you to have your plans snarled before you even set foot in the tower you came to steal.”

  Roag stiffened. “Have care, lass. I am nae thief.”

  “Then what are you?” She folded her arms, watching him with her bold, green gaze.

  “No’ what you think.” Roag kept his face expressionless.

  “I didn’t tell you what I think. You heard what I believe.”

  “What one believes isn’t always true.”

  “Nor are denials.”

  “Would you trust anything I said?”

  “Nae.”

&
nbsp; “So I thought.” Roag rolled his shoulders, aware of a dull throbbing pain between them. “See here, lass. Whatever his reasons, your father bound us this night. He’ll sail away at first light, leaving you behind without a care or thought. The truth is that suits me fine.”

  It did.

  Now that he’d given more thought to the matter.

  Having MacDonnell’s promised bride at his side supported his mission.

  The botheration she presented was secondary.

  He glanced at the window arch, the thick fog coming in from the sea. “To everyone outside this wee, drafty chamber, you are now my bride.” He looked back at her, hoping his tone made her position clear. “You daren’t forget that, ever.”

  “I see.” She drew her cloak more tightly about her, clutching its edges in a white-knuckled grip. “You think to claim me, as part of poor Donell’s legacy. You intend to go on as if—”

  “Poor Donell? I thought you couldn’t abide him.”

  Her chin came up, her eyes sparking. “He has left this world, and so must be pitied.”

  “Dead or no, so long as your family is here, he lives and breathes. Indeed”—he went to the window, placed his hands on the ledge—“I’d warn that if you give even the slightest indication that I am no’ who I say I am, I’ll have nae choice but to ensure that your father and his men cannae sail away in the morn. If you dare reveal my true name, they’ll no’ leave at all.” He turned back to her, his expression suitably fierce. “Ever.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “You would threaten my family?”

  Lass, I wouldn’t harm them if they all dropped to their knees and tipped their heads to the sides, waiting for the sword blow. I’ve ne’er raised a blade against innocents and willnae start now. Say her that, you arse. Tell her.

  Instead, he gave her a curt nod. “If need be.”

  She glared at him. “You’re heartless.”

  “That may be.” Roag hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, leaned back against the edge of the window arch. “Disregard my warning and you’ll find out. I’d advise you no’ to chance it.”