To Desire a Highlander Page 4

  “That I ken.” Donell didn’t miss a beat, heading over to her, coming fast.

  The glint in his eye, the hard set of his jaw, made her forget every word he and her father had just exchanged. Indeed, even her reason for standing here almost slipped from her mind.

  She saw only Donell, the slight narrowing of his dark, intense eyes.

  She held up a hand, hoping to halt him.

  He kept on, ignoring her objection. “You needn’t assure me of her talents.” He tossed the quip to her father, not breaking stride. “Lady Gillian is as renowned for her skills as for her beauty.”

  “See here…” Gillian couldn’t finish, needing a steadying breath more than arguments. Sparks leapt between them, the very air shifting. Heat rose around her, warming her skin despite the racing wind, the day’s bitter cold.

  He was almost upon her and she felt more than saw his displeasure. He’d caught himself quickly, even before her father finished speaking. If he’d been shocked by the implications behind praise of her housekeeping talent, he’d again seized the advantage. He wore a wickedly devilish look that jellied her knees.

  She bristled.

  He might be roguish, even wildly attractive, but she wouldn’t bat her eyelashes, allow him to fluster her. There were surely enough women who did. And she wasn’t about to join their ranks.

  She wasn’t so easily charmed.

  So she lifted her chin, willing a steely glint into her eyes. She knew with feminine instinct that he wasn’t pleased by her father’s reminder of their betrothal.

  Perhaps he’d met another woman during his years away, wished to marry her?

  One could hope.

  She wouldn’t mind releasing him from their ties, freeing him to claim another.

  Unfortunately, the closer he came, the more she discerned an entirely different intent. As he loomed before her, his towering presence blocking her family and even her view of the landing beach, she knew she wasn’t mistaken. Especially when he set his hands on her shoulders, a slow smile spreading across his strong, bearded face.

  He meant to kiss her.

  She frowned, hoping to dissuade him.

  “It’s too late for posturing, sweetness.” He shook his head, the thick raven silk of his hair teasing his broad, plaid-draped shoulders.

  “I did no’ expect to see you again.” Gillian straightened, flicked at her sleeve. “No’ this day, no’ ever. In truth, I scarce recognize you.”

  “Then I was gone too long, I’m thinking.” He caught her hand, linking their fingers, bringing her wrist to his lips. The warmth of his mouth against her skin and the light brush of his wind-chilled beard sent a rush of tingly sensation along her nerves.

  Even the thin scar that arced across his left cheekbone made her breath catch, her insides quiver. Obviously a knife-slash, and a mark she didn’t recall, the scar enhanced his appeal, giving him a roguish air she was sure had most women melting into puddles at his feet. Inexplicably irritated by the notion, she stiffened, hoping he couldn’t tell how much he unsettled her.

  Chill mist swirled around them, but she’d have sworn the air held enough heat to singe them.

  She could feel the blaze, hot and searing.

  Worse, a terrible tingly warmth spread across her most private places. Intense, and shockingly pleasurable, the rush of intimate sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt.

  She kept her chin raised, sure even the blood in her veins had turned to flame. “I understand if you have regrets about our betrothal. If you’d rather—”

  “My only sorrow is that I left you on your own, all this time.” He straightened, still grasping her hand. His own was warm and firm, calloused. “It was an unavoidable mishap that I must remedy to the fullest. Indeed, I shall put the task above all others,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips. “You, fair lady, deserve nae less.”

  Gillian bristled, not missing the irony in his voice.

  She was certain he hadn’t meant a word.

  The tingly ripples between her thighs began to lessen, the unexpected and shocking heat cooling.

  “I, sir, am the least of your cares.” She leaned around him to peer at his ship; the men still unloading his cargo. Some of them threw looks at Donell that showed they were amused by his encounter with her. One or two ignored him, their gazes boldly traveling up and down the length of her. She turned back to Donell, pretending not to have noticed. “You have much work to do. I do no’ wish to intrude, though I would like to speak with you.”

  He inclined his head. “I am honored.”

  Gillian narrowed her eyes at him.

  Honor was the last thing on his mind. She hadn’t been raised in a castle filled with men not to recognize when she was being teased. Or, as with this man before her, being played for a fool.

  “You are honored I wish us to speak?” She lifted a brow of her own. “That is all?”

  “Nae.” He looked amused by her challenge, which only heightened her annoyance.

  “We shall enjoy more than talk.” He squeezed her fingers and smiled again, the intimacy of his tone sliding over her as softly as the whirling mist. “Surely you ken how much I’ve missed you?”

  She didn’t, not at all. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Then you know little of men.” His gaze slid over her, appreciatively. “You are no’ a maid easily forgotten.”

  Gillian felt heat inching up her neck. She was also aware of her temper rising. Any moment he’d push her into proving why she’d earned her by-name, Spitfire of the Isles. But she didn’t trust herself to speak, not now. How could she when he was looking at her as though he might devour her whole?

  “You have not seen me in five years.” It was the best she could do.

  Just standing so close to him hampered her wits, making it hard to find words. He was simply too big, too bold, and entirely too confident.

  She didn’t care for his swagger.

  “It has been a long time,” she gave him the same argument, the intensity of his gaze unnerving her so much she could think of nothing else.

  “Nae man could gaze upon you and no’ desire you.” He touched her hair, letting his fingers trail lightly over the wind-mussed strands. “Such a man would carry your image with him always, nae matter where he journeyed or how long he was away. He’d yearn for you in his waking hours, suffering the loss of your presence, and he’d dream of you at night, longing for you through the empty darkness.

  “Think you I am different from other men?” He arched a raven brow, held her gaze.

  “I believe some men are gifted with silvered tongues.” She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he seemed to possess such a talent.

  “Indeed?” He again employed his deeply seductive voice, so much smoother and richer than she remembered.

  Worse, as though he’d read her thoughts and wished to bedevil her, he leaned in so close that their faces almost touched. His eyes narrowed on hers, steady and deliberate. His breath flickered across her lips, soft, warm, and intensely disturbing.

  “So you are familiar with men’s tongues?” He arched a brow again, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. “The skills of mine might shock you.”

  “Nothing you do surprises me.” Gillian stood straighter, not about to show how much he unsettled her.

  His words, and their scandalous implication, made her heart beat faster and sent tingly awareness coiling through the lower parts of her belly.

  “Aye, well…” He lifted one of her curls, rubbing the strands between his thumb and forefinger. “For sure, you caught me unawares, being here.”

  “My father is responsible.” She saw no reason to lie.

  She also felt feverish, certain she’d sway any moment if he didn’t step back, giving her air. Already, her heart raced crazily and she heard a strange, high-pitched buzzing in her ears, as if a herd of maddened midges swarmed right behind her head.

  “Then I am in his debt. You were much on my mind, lass.” He shi
fted his gaze to the sea, where the tide ran strong. The wind was picking up, the cold air full of brine and the scream of gulls, the reek of wet rock and seaweed. It was a heady blend to any Hebridean. Clearly appreciative, he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

  When he turned back to her, a wicked smile came to his lips. “I did miss you.”

  “I do not see why.” Gillian spoke as levelly as she could, successfully extracting her hand from his grasp. “We only saw each other once, when we were betrothed at Sway.”

  “All the more reason to waste nae further time.” He seized her hand again, nipping her fingers with his teeth. Pure devilry glinted in his eyes, as if he wished to fluster her. “Do you no’ agree?”

  Before she could respond, he pulled her to him, whipping an iron-hard arm around her so that she was crushed to his broad, mail-clad chest. From a great distance, or so it seemed, she heard her brothers—or Donell’s men?—cheering and shouting encouragement. Despite their tumult, or perhaps because of it, he clutched her even tighter, capturing her lips in a hard, rough kiss that swept her with a current of scorching heat. With his other hand, he gripped the back of her head, holding her in place as he plundered her mouth, kissing her deeply. It was a kiss unlike any she’d ever imagined and its boldness stunned her, leaving her breathless.

  Shaken and rattled, beyond repair.

  When he finally set her from him, his flashing grin once more in place, it was clear that every man on the landing beach had watched. Worse, the approval on their faces proved they’d found masculine delight in seeing her long-lost betrothed claim what was his.

  Too bad she felt otherwise.

  Brushing down her skirts, she met Donell’s amused gaze. “I am not a tavern wench to be ravished so scandalously, before all men and—”

  “There is nae shame in a man eagerly greeting his wife-to-be.” He looked round at the others, her father and her brothers, his own crew, who’d stopped their work to stare down the beach at them.

  “You could have waited.” She followed his gaze, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  Every man present returned Donell’s smile, the lot of them grinning like fools.

  “Nae, I couldn’t have done.” As if he wished to vex her even more, and entertain their audience, he traced a finger down the curve of her cheek and then along her jaw, studying its path as if he’d never seen anything as fascinating. “By Thor, I’m feeling a powerful urge to kiss you again.”

  And then he did, this time brushing his mouth so softly over hers that, for a moment, she wasn’t even sure if he really had kissed her.

  But he had, there could be no doubt.

  She knew because another flurry of tingles rippled through her again. They spilled from her kiss-swollen lips right into her belly, where the startling sensations twirled wickedly before tumbling ever downward until she was quite sure her toes must be curling.

  “Kisses are a fine thing, eh?” His tone was wicked. The way his eyes twinkled proved he knew what she was feeling.

  Gillian stood frozen, sure her outrage made her glow like a balefire.

  If she’d thought she was unsteady on her feet before, now her knees had weakened and spirals of shockingly pleasant heat persisted in spinning through the lowest regions of her female parts, warming her in places that shouldn’t respond to him no matter how masterfully he kissed.

  “That, good sir, wasn’t necessary.” She met his gaze, more sure than ever that she’d need more than a few silver coins and Viking baubles to be rid of him.

  He’d changed greatly.

  And much as it annoyed her to admit, she almost preferred the brutish ox she remembered. What that said about her didn’t bear consideration.

  Either way, she was in trouble.

  Chapter Four

  Sweet lass, I disagree powerfully.” Roag used his most charming tone, aware it would annoy her. No one else on the landing beach would hear, but he knew they were observed. So for good measure, he also rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. “Kisses are aye needed, perhaps even life-sustaining. I cannae think to forgo such a delight.”

  “I would call it otherwise.” She gave him a long, deliberate look, irritation sparking in her lovely emerald eyes. “It wasn’t enjoyable to me.”

  “Is that so?” Roag smiled at her.

  Her chin came up, the movement treating him to a delicate waft of lavender, a scrumptiously light and feminine scent that sent a rush of heat straight to his groin. “I didn’t like it at all.”

  “I dinnae believe you. For myself, I couldnae resist kissing you.” He was also sure that she was the work of the devil.

  Stepping back, he braced his legs apart and crossed his arms as he eyed her up and down. For sure, he had the rights of her. Only the fiend himself could craft such a bewitching enchantress. Lushly made, possessed of a fiery temperament, and with her coppery curls in wild abandon, she’d tempt the most hard-hearted man. Even one who’d sworn that he’d gone off women, something he, as a well-lusted, hot-blooded sort, certainly hadn’t done.

  He appreciated women.

  Nae, he craved them like the air he breathed. Perhaps even more so.

  What a shame Lady Gillian was such a botheration.

  But she was, so he kept his most roguish smile in place, hoping it was bold enough to send her running home to her cozy hearthside at Castle Sway. An island keep he thanked the gods he’d taken the effort to learn by name as the Clan MacGuire stronghold.

  Truth was, he’d spent days studying a list of the Hebridean chieftains he might encounter on this mission. He’d learned their titles and by-names, the location and names of their island homes, their allies and enemies, how many ships and men they commanded, and even their peculiarities if they were known to have any worth noting.

  He’d passed hours holed up in a little-used chamber at Stirling Castle, questioning the few men who’d met Donell MacDonnell, learning all he could about the rascally, skirt-chasing chieftain.

  There’d been no mention of Lady Gillian MacGuire.

  And he was going to have strong words with Alexander Stewart, King Robert III’s notorious brother, commonly known as the Wolf of Badenoch, and undisputable leader of the secret order of warriors known as the Fenris.

  A clandestine brotherhood of trust that the Wolf had now breached beyond repair, sending Roag to this spit of rock in the windiest, coldest corner of the Hebridean Sea without warning him that the man he was supposed to be, by all the hamstrung, cross-grained gods and their minions, hadn’t just been a lecherous scoundrel of a hot-blooded wenching blackguard, but a fine lassie’s betrothed.

  It was an inexcusable oversight.

  He’d been assured he’d find Laddie’s Isle deserted, empty of all but weed-draped rock, the roar of the sea, and the bite of cold, salty air.

  The isle wasn’t supposed to be occupied by a siren.

  Nor had he thought to meet such a vixen’s father and brothers, men clearly eager to foist her upon him.

  He required peace and solitude, a quiet place to work in stealth.

  Lady Gillian stepped hard on his toe and poked a finger into his chest, reclaiming his attention and proving she was just the hellion he’d imagined. “We are betrothed, not wed or even handfasted,” she declared, her eyes blazing. “More restraint would be appreciated.”

  “Dinnae push me, lass.” Roag pulled his foot from beneath hers and scowled at her. “My patience has already been tested this day, more than you ken. So have done and be glad I’m no’ of a mind to do more than kiss you.

  “For the now,” he added, just to rile her.

  Vexed himself, he glanced over his shoulder at his men, at her family. They were at the far end of the cove, making for the steep cliff path up to the ruined tower. Some were already climbing the harrowing track. He watched them for a moment and then turned again to the iron-gray sea, the freedom of its tossing waves.

  Annoyance sluiced him. His damned head still throbbed, the ache even worse now. Closing his eyes,
he pulled a hand down over his bearded chin.

  Hoping to brace himself to better handle what was fast becoming the worst day of his life, he took a deep, fortifying breath of the cold sea air—only to hear the sudden swish of skirts and the unmistakable crunch of hastening female footsteps on the pebbled shore.

  Roag swore and snapped open his eyes.

  Lady Gillian was striding away from him, hurrying down the beach toward the others. The straight set of her back and her shoulders, along with her swift gait, screamed her perturbation to anyone who might see her.

  “Prickly she-witch.” Roag frowned after her, his mood darkening even more when he saw that the men were now halfway up the cliff, about to turn a curve that would hide them from view. The great bulk of the headland would also prevent them from seeing the lass picking her way up the steep stone steps behind them.

  A light rain was falling now and the path, little more than a perpendicular goat track, would be more slippery than ever.

  If she fell, plunging to her death…

  Roag took off at a run, pounding after her. A thousand thoughts went with him, clouding his mind, making him crazy. Dark, angry, and disturbing notions, riding him like a demon, urging him on.

  Never in his world could he allow her to storm up such path in haste, in caution-blasting ire. Yet there she was, her skirts hitched high, her shapely legs and trim ankles carrying her much too quickly up the rain-wet cliff.

  “Bluidy hell!” He ran faster, his heart almost stopping when she slipped, flailing her arms before she caught herself and hurried on.

  “Ho, lass, wait!” He reached the start of the path, launched himself up the rough stone steps, hewn out of the cliff centuries before. “Stay where you are, hold—”

  The wind gusted, carrying away his shouts. The fool maid climbed on, one hand on her hip and the other at her brow, surely in a futile effort to keep her windblown hair from whipping across her eyes.

  Roag doubted she could see at all.

  The thought chilling him, he hurried on, taking the steps three at a time. He also swore, though his curses couldn’t be heard above the wind. Never would he have believed his arrival on Laddie’s Isle would be such a disaster.