To Desire a Highlander Page 7

  She could like this man.

  And her betrothed clearly didn’t want him to admire her. He’d returned his attention to his roasted meat, his face set like stone.

  Ignoring him, Gillian smiled at the big helmsman. “Perhaps you shall see such a wonder. In the morn, when we sail for my home, the Isle of Sway. I shall take the steering oar if my father and my brothers agree.” She glanced at them, her spirits lifting to see the love and warmth on their faces.

  Only her father didn’t look pleased.

  Indeed, he avoided her eye.

  Donell MacDonnell appeared even more annoyed than before. No longer tearing into his venison, he now watched her over the rim of his ale cup, his gaze piercing. Gillian thought a muscle jerked in his jaw, but she couldn’t be sure because of his beard.

  Either way, Conn of the Strong Arm’s congeniality vexed him.

  Unable to resist rubbing salt into the wound, Gillian took a breath. “You see, Sir Donell,” she addressed him formally, her tone as strong and proud as she could make it, “we do things differently in the Hebrides.”

  “That, I have ever known.” He took a long, slow sip of ale.

  Something about the intensity of his perusal, the deep richness of his voice, caused a fluttering in her belly. A startling flurry of tingly warmth, surprisingly pleasant, but also troubling because the sensations rippled across places she wanted well guarded from Donell MacDonnell.

  He smiled and inclined his head as if he knew.

  Gillian hoped not.

  She also didn’t flinch. She was a chieftain’s daughter, however rascally her sire. She carried the blood of many more leaders before him. Her spine was forged of steel, and fire ran in her veins. She’d been born to courage. No one backed her into a corner, certainly not the huge, dark-eyed, hard-muscled man sitting across from her. If a thrill of excitement ran through her just looking at him, such feelings were surely caused by knowing she’d soon see the last of him.

  She was certain of victory.

  Hadn’t his eyes lit at her mention of treasure? A prize so precious, she could only show him behind closed doors. He’d looked at her in lust, revealing he’d misunderstood. He’d suspected she’d strip before him, using feminine wiles to see her will done. He’d expect to bed her in exchange for breaking their betrothal.

  Gillian glanced at the hall’s high-set windows. The sky was gray and slightly luminous, swirly mist drifting past the narrow openings.

  Soon, evening would be upon them.

  Her rendezvous with the man who thought to put his hands on her naked flesh, possessing and ravishing her, taking her innocence as his due.

  He thought to breed with her.

  Gillian could feel a flush heating her face. She knew he wanted her. She’d seen the same look on her brothers’ faces when they were out sailing and they’d dropped anchor near a shore-side tavern. The kind known for lusty, eager-to-please serving wenches, always ready to air their skirts. Donell clearly planned to get beneath hers.

  She’d also heard scraps of gossip about him over the years. Shocking tales, whispered in Sway’s kitchens when no one knew she was about. Rumor was he had an unhealthy interest in bosoms. Hadn’t he devoured hers with his gaze, just moments ago? Gillian felt loathing unfurl inside her. She wasn’t about to bare her breasts for him, perform the spectacles Sway’s serving wenches swore he craved so hungrily.

  A shame her breasts were full, firm, and round. The sort she knew men appreciated. How she wished they were better covered now, hidden behind a shawl or shapeless gown.

  Above all, she hoped Viking silver and gold would prove of greater value.

  Not liking the cold knot sitting so heavily in her stomach, she clasped her hands on the crisp white table linen and did her best to appear calm. She straightened her back a bit more, hoping her cool mien and stiff posture would dampen Donell’s amorous ambitions.

  His slow, lazy smile said that wasn’t so.

  “Are you no’ hungry?” He arched a brow, a hint of amusement in his peat-brown eyes. A dimple flashed above his beard, making him dangerously attractive in a bold, roguish way. He reached to tap the tip of his eating knife to her plate, his hand brushing her forearm. “You havenae touched your venison.”

  “I have now.” She snared a piece of the perfectly roasted meat, popping it into her mouth, chewing carefully. She also tried to ignore how his warm skin lighting against hers sent an unexpected swirl of hot tingles across her female parts. How could such a known beast stir such a reaction? Furious, she forced herself to swallow the meat.

  It tasted like muck.

  She knew the venison was delicious. Her father’s cook had preroasted the haunch at Castle Sway, seasoning it with secret spices. Then he’d prepared the meat for the sea journey so that her brothers needed only to place the haunch on a spit and stoke the fire.

  “Such a delicacy is a rare delight.” Donell spoke low, provocative. His gaze was even more disconcerting, steady on hers. “Such a feast should be savored, each succulent taste celebrated to the fullest. Do you no’ agree?”

  Gillian didn’t answer.

  She knew he wasn’t referring to the venison.

  “You are observant,” she owned, meeting his gaze. Then, summoning every ounce of steel she possessed, she took a long, slow sip of wine. “I truly have lost my appetite. It could be something here doesn’t agree with me.”

  Donell smiled wickedly. “All the more reason for you to eat. A good meal will replenish you.” He took a large bite of venison, chewing appreciatively. “My hunger has increased since arriving here. Indeed, I am ravenous.” His eyes gleamed, his gaze roaming over her. “I doubt I can get enough.”

  Gillian looked at him pointedly. “Then do not let me keep you from your meal, sir.”

  “Donell.”

  “As you wish, Sir Donell.”

  To her annoyance, he laughed. “I am well-pleased with Lady Gillian’s spirit,” he declared, turning to her father. “In the Manx prison these last years, the only woman I saw was the toothless crone who brought me meals of moldy bread and soured ale.

  “Your daughter, MacGuire, is a refreshing change.” He punched her father’s arm, good-naturedly, and then went back to his meal, cutting another generous piece of roasted meat. “Lady Gillian is as welcome as this venison after the sparse rot I endured in my lonely cell.”

  Some of his men chuckled, but the red-bearded giant, Conn of the Strong Arm, frowned. “Enough, my friend,” he said, an odd note in his voice. “Have done, and let’s no’ speak of troubled times.”

  “Indeed!” Donell raised his ale cup to his helmsman.

  “You do not look as if you’ve subsisted on such a foul and meager diet.” Gillian smiled sweetly at him.

  At the end of the table, her brother Gowan cleared his throat. “I’ve heard the lords of Mann work their captives hard,” he said, ever the peacemaker. “There are tales of men treated like slaves, forced to row ships without sleep, split trees and rock, and even fight bears for the nobles’ nightly entertainments. Nae doubt, Donell—”

  “So it was, my friend.” Donell glanced at his own men, each one except the helmsman nodding agreement. “I ought to thank the bastards.” He leaned back, slapped his flat, mail-covered abdomen. “Ne’er in all my days have I been in such form!”

  “That is certainly true.” Gillian took another sip of her wine, watching him carefully.

  He didn’t look anything like the ogre she remembered.

  If her father had better eyesight, he’d agree.

  She kept her cup against her lips, no longer drinking. She did observe Donell across the rim, not trusting him farther than the cloth-covered width of the table. “Some might say you are a changed man.”

  “So I am! Be that as it may, my wish to wed you is stronger than ever. By the gods, I’d hasten our nuptials!” He glanced at her father. “ ’Tis now spring. What say you we marry at Castle Sway by summer’s end? That will allow your family to plan the ceremo
ny and a proper feasting. Guests from afar can make the journey.”

  “That would please me.” Relief sluiced Gillian. If all went as she hoped, she’d be well rid of him long before then.

  Turning to her father, she plied her most gracious tone. “Lady Lorna would welcome such a date.” Her stepmother would appreciate Gillian’s plans more. “She’d have ample time for preparations, and I’d be gone before the birth of her first child. My rooms are close enough to yours to make a fine nursery.

  “Summer’s end it is.” She lifted her cup to Donell, her smile even genuine.

  The slow upward curve of his own lips said he saw through her. “Your eagerness flatters me, my lady.” He reached across the table, knocking his cup to hers. “After all this time, I wouldnae want a greater delay.”

  “I’ve a better proposal!” Her father stood, slapped a hand on the table. “I say this poor man has waited too long already. Seeing as he’s endured so much, I’m accepting his original offer!”

  Gillian blinked. She didn’t have any idea what her father meant.

  She did know his levity boded ill.

  His face had split in the grin he wore whenever someone stumbled into a trap he’d laid for him. Cunning as he was, few then escaped.

  Donell clearly recognized the danger, his smile no longer reaching his eyes. For a moment, he looked perplexed. On another day, in a different world, Gillian might have felt sorry for him. As things stood, she knew her father’s scheming would affect her in a worse way.

  “You are a good man.” Donell’s face cleared as her father stooped to pull a worn leather sack from beneath the table. “I wouldnae have thought you’d remember, or be so generous.”

  “You erred, eh?” Mungo tossed him a grin, even winking.

  Gillian watched her father intently. She didn’t care for the great ceremony he made of plunking the bag on the table, untying its strings with a flourish.

  She felt cold, almost light-headed. “What’s in there?”

  “What we need!” Her father thrust his arm into the old leather bag, retrieving a silver-and-jewel-rimmed mead horn that he waved over his head. Gillian knew the famed drinking vessel, and it answered all of her questions. It also iced the blood in her veins.

  “The Horn of Bliss,” she said unnecessarily, feeling herself blanch.

  “To be sure!” Her father grinned. “A good thing I thought to bring it along.”

  Gillian stared at him, at the mead horn, as the meaning of his words sank in. She still held a handful of honeyed nuts, but dropped them now, letting them fall onto her plate. Several slid into her lap, then rolled to the floor. She couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. The horn’s silvered rim gleamed in the torchlight. Its sheen taunted her, trapping her in a disaster she couldn’t believe was happening.

  The Horn of Bliss changed everything.

  “A fine piece.” Donell eyed it appreciatively. “Worth a king’s ransom.”

  “ ’Tis priceless, aye!” Mungo nodded, looking proud and benevolent. “Old as stone, it is, or so some say. The horn has been passed down through MacGuire chieftains for o’er five hundred years, perhaps longer. A great Viking warlord gave it to one of my forebears in exchange for his youngest and most beautiful daughter. The poor man had—”

  “His own gains at heart,” Gillian cut in with her opinion of her ancestor’s motive.

  She stood, scarce hearing her voice for the roaring in her ears. From somewhere distant, she thought she caught her brothers’ protestations, the mumblings of Donell’s men, and poor Skog’s barking.

  She couldn’t tell for sure because the hall had dimmed before her. The walls and tables and torches blurred, swimming together as the floor tilted beneath her feet. One of her father’s men was approaching, a large jug in his hand. He stopped beside Mungo, deftly pouring rich, golden mead into the Horn of Bliss, Clan MacGuire’s most sacred heirloom. According to legend, the relic would ensure carnal bliss and many children to every man who partook from it. Drinking from it would seal a handfast. But would Donell remember such after so much time away?

  MacGuire chieftains saw the Horn of Bliss as a secret weapon, believing its power guaranteed such alliances went as wished, with a wedding after the pair’s year and a day of couplings.

  Gillian didn’t want to breed with Donell.

  Not this night, and for sure not for such an interminable length of time.

  “Wait!” She darted around the table, intending to snatch the horn. “Don’t touch it!” She lunged, reaching out. “Don’t let him give it to you.”

  But she was too late.

  Already, her father was presenting the relic to Donell, grinning broadly as her unsuspecting betrothed lifted the horn to his lips, tipping back the silver rim and drinking deep of the mead within.

  Gillian stared at him in horror, watching as he unwittingly sealed their handfast. Whatever followed didn’t matter. The Horn of Bliss was tradition and no MacGuire would deny its validity.

  Even Gillian couldn’t.

  The deed was done.

  Chapter Eight

  You fear your father would poison me?” Donell looked at Lady Gillian as he placed the emptied drinking horn on his new hall’s high table. He had no idea why she hadn’t wanted him to sample her father’s mead, but damned if he didn’t enjoy riling her.

  He liked the color that then stained her cheeks. “I didnae think you were that fond of me.”

  A smile curved his mouth. He couldn’t help it.

  He shouldn’t be amused at all, not seeing her agitation. But she drove him to feel and do things he couldn’t explain, as if she’d bewitched him.

  He looked away, then back to her. “I’m honored.”

  “You shouldn’t be.” She glanced at the discarded horn, her breath coming fast from her sprint around the table. “You have no idea what you’ve done!” Her green eyes flashed, blazing like jewels. “Drinking from the Horn of Bliss seals my clan’s handfasting ceremony, binding a pair as surely as a priest mumbling sacred vows.”

  Roag’s smile faded. “A handfast—”

  “Aye, that’s what this is. My clan has ever been known for them.”

  “Handfasting?” Roag stared at her.

  He couldn’t think. His mind whirled, a sick feeling spreading inside him. “My original offer…” He turned to her father, letting his words trail away, hoping the fiend would enlighten him.

  “As you wished, my boy, as you wished!” Mungo pulled a dirk from beneath his belt, began slicing a narrow strip from his plaid. “To be sure, I wasn’t for accepting a handfast back when you proposed it. The gel was too young.” He swelled his chest, cocky as a rooster. “Seeing as you’ve waited so long to claim her, I’m thinking you deserve her now.” He grabbed Lady Gillian’s arm, swiftly looping the tartan around her wrist, thrusting her hand in Roag’s direction. “No need to wait months for a wedding, no’ when she’s here, ready and willing to be yours.”

  “Indeed.” Roag forced a grin, cursing the rascally bastard in silence and his own rashness for landing in such a position.

  Refusing wasn’t an option.

  Not if he wasn’t to reveal his true identity and risk the King’s mission, earning his justifiable wrath. Fenris never failed. If they did, they didn’t live long enough to regret their mistake.

  “Then let us be on with it.” Seeing no choice, he grasped Lady Gillian’s hand, linking their fingers. He didn’t blink as her father bound their wrists with the plaid strip. He even ignored the urge to punch the grin off the older man’s ruddy, red-bearded face.

  Roag might love his King, but he appreciated breathing more.

  Life was too good, generally, to lose it because of the machinations of a wily Hebridean chief and his admittedly desirable daughter. Already the lout was reciting the ancient words, a sacred ceremony Roag had witnessed once or twice, never believing he’d fall prey to one.

  “… you are entering a hallowed bond, here within this circle of kith, kin, and frie
nds, and blessed by all the powers of the Old Ones,” Mungo’s voice rose, drowning out the scraping of bench legs on stone, the shuffle of feet as Lady Gillian’s brothers gathered around them.

  Roag’s men joined in, their eyebrows nearly as high as the ceiling’s smoke-blackened rafters. Not one of them protested, no doubt knowing their own Fenris necks rested on their compliance, the damning pretense that Roag was Donell MacDonnell.

  “Do you enter this union freely?” Mungo slung another band of the cloth about their wrists. “Are you prepared to stand together always, on days of fair winds as in nights of hard rains?”

  Lady Gillian ignored her father, pinning Roag with a glare as sharp as emerald ice. “Aye,” she vowed, unblinking.

  At the edge of the circle of men, Big Hughie Alesone began to cough. Roag sent him a look and Big Hughie turned aside, bending double as one of Roag’s other men slapped his back. The oaf was clearly laughing, and Roag made a secret vow to have harsh words with him as soon as this farce ended. There wasn’t anything amusing about his plight.

  More important, he had no intention of keeping false vows.

  Fenris sometimes suffered for Scotland, and he’d never been one to shun duty.

  He wouldn’t start now.

  So he stood straighter and put back his shoulders, giving his bride his fullest attention. He even summoned the semblance of a smile. “Aye, I will stand with Lady Gillian on fair days and in rain.”

  “Will you honor and respect one another?” Mungo made another loop around their hands. “Sharing laughter and sorrow, easing each other’s pain and seeking to replace it with gladness?”

  “Aye.” Lady Gillian’s agreement came cold and clipped.

  Roag was sure the floor was opening beneath his feet. He could feel himself sliding into an abyss, a dark and suffocating place of no return. Somehow he nodded, even voiced his assent. “So be it, aye.”

  “The bond is made!” Mungo MacGuire grinned, securing a third loop around their wrists. “As your hands are now joined, so are your bodies, hearts, and spirits from this moment onward for a year and a day. Should you then choose to part, any child bred of your union shall be honored as your legitimate heir and…”