“Could your brother John help?”
With her arm still slung around Mary’s shoulder, Flora could feel her stiffen. “No.” She gazed at Flora with something akin to guilt in her eyes. “You’ve been so kind.”
“It’s not your fault your brother abducted me.”
“Don’t blame him too harshly. Lachlan had no choice.”
Flora’s expression hardened. “There is always a choice.” She took Mary’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Do not despair, Mary. I will speak to him. I’m sure I can knock some sense into him.”
Her words were prophetic, but not in the manner she intended. Instead, it was she who was knocked senseless.
After making sure that Mary had eaten some food, Flora set about fulfilling her promise. She knew from the time of day that the laird would be seeing to his men’s battle skills on the practice yard. She’d seen the swirl of dust and heard the clatter of swords often enough in the past week but had purposely stayed clear of the half-naked men wielding their weapons of death—perhaps subconsciously trying to avoid a visual affirmation of her mother’s warnings.
They’re primitive, brutal men who are happy only when they are at war.
But as she left the shadow of the castle behind her and approached the raucous sounds of swordplay, the sight that met her eyes shook her to the core.
My God, he was magnificent, blazing in the sun like a tawny lion.
She might have made a mistake in avoiding the practice yard. The laird wasn’t just supervising his warriors, his skills were on display today. But skills weren’t all that was on display.
She let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. With only a pair of leather trews that stretched over his powerful thighs, the smooth, tanned skin of his bare chest gleamed like polished granite in the sunlight. Every inch of his powerful torso had been chipped from stone, the heavy slabs of muscle cut and built by years of battle. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick, and his waist narrow. Tight bands of well-defined muscle layered across his flat stomach. A smattering of small scars had left their warrior’s mark, but it was the one long slash across his side that drew her gaze. The one that had yet to heal. She felt a stab of regret. Her mark.
But the scars did not detract from his rugged perfection. Not an ounce of spare flesh padded his form; he was rippled and strong and impossibly masculine, every inch a powerful Highland warrior. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his hot skin. The urge was so strong, it frightened her. Her mother had been wrong. There was some appeal to the Highlander’s warrior way of life. Now that she had seen a man such as this, a man of such physicality, of such raw power, how could a delicate courtier possibly compare?
They couldn’t. Lachlan Maclean was a man built for protection. And there was something almost intoxicating about watching him demonstrate his skills and strength.
Her senses flared. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, though she knew she was treading dangerously. No longer could she deny it, even to herself. She wanted him. And seeing him like this would only make him that much harder to resist. What would it be like to be held in his strong arms, cradled against that muscular chest and kissed passionately? Would she dissolve in heat again? Would she ever want to leave the shelter of that protective embrace?
He raised his arms, holding the two-handed claymore high above his head, wielding it with an ease and grace that belied its weight. Only when he met the powerful blows of his opponent did the long cords of muscles flex and ripple with exertion.
At first, she was mesmerized by the sheer power of the display before her. There was a beauty to the thrust and swing of each powerful stroke. Beauty in the way he moved to evade and then attack.
Then she realized something strange was going on. There was an intensity to his movements, a ferocity to his strokes, that seemed odd. It seemed…real.
About a score of his warriors had gathered around. She looked at their faces, so transfixed that no one had yet to become aware of her presence. It was more quiet than usual—barely a sound above the heavy clashing of the swords and the exertions of the two men exchanging blow after powerful blow. The ground seemed to shake with the force of each stroke. There was a subtle undercurrent that permeated the air, thick with tension and the sultry scent of sea tinged with sweat.
For the first time, she glanced at the laird’s opponent. Physically, they were well matched. The other man was perhaps an inch or two taller than Coll and also heavily muscled, albeit bulkier. His movements were a bit more ponderous. She paused. There was only one man with that build and white blond hair. Odin. Mary’s captain.
A chill of unease slid down her spine as understanding dawned. This was a battle.
Allan swung the mighty steel blade in a deadly arc, bringing it down with such force that Flora gasped and took a step forward as if she could protect him. She need not have worried. The laird blocked the fierce blow with barely a grimace. But he’d heard her. She felt the swift jolt when his eyes bored into her with piercing intensity. Marking her. A look that made it clear he didn’t want her here; that she was intruding. But how could she leave? She was rooted to the fierce drama unfolding before her.
Back and forth they went, exchanging blow after blow until Flora didn’t think she could take it anymore. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. She wanted them to stop. But it was clear they were almost evenly matched. This could go on forever. Or until they both collapsed from exhaustion.
Allan seemed to find a burst of strength. Her breath caught when he attacked with renewed vigor, driving the laird back until he neared the barmkin wall. She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling the cry that slipped out. She feared he was still weak from the stabbing.
Her heart pounded. Dear God, he was going to be hurt. Allan had homed in for the kill. He swung the blade down again with deadly force, and the laird managed to block it with his sword high over his head. But Allan had leverage. He used his formidable size to lower the sword, blade to blade, in a silvery cross, until it inched ever closer to the laird’s head.
“Yield, damn you,” Allan urged through clenched teeth.
Coll’s reply was too low for her to hear. But from Allan’s enraged expression, she could tell it hadn’t been pleasant.
The laird was straining under the weight. The muscles of his arms bulged and shook as he fought to prevent the blade from crashing down on him. She had to do something.
She made a move toward them. But in one smooth motion, the laird dropped to the side, laced his foot around Allan’s ankle, and brought the bigger man down to his knees. Before Flora could blink, Coll had his sword poised at Allan’s neck. She halted midstep, stunned by the quick turn of events.
“Yield,” he said raggedly. And in a voice she could just make out: “She’s not for you.”
Allan wasn’t going to surrender. She could see it in his eyes. Not defiance, but resolve. He would never outright challenge his chief in his decision, but neither would he yield. Not in this. Not for the woman he loved. Without thinking, Flora rushed forward, putting herself between the two men. The anger surging between them was palpable. Neither would look away as their eyes engaged in an interminable battle of wills.
She reached up, gently placing her palm on the laird’s naked chest. It shocked them both. His skin was hot to the touch, and her senses reeled from the heady masculine force of him. She was immediately conscious of the raw power surging under her fingertips, radiating from him like an invisible shield. She must be mad. What in the world was she doing? She felt as though she’d just placed herself in the mouth of a lion. How could she expect to harness such strength?
He hadn’t moved the sword from Allan’s neck, but his gaze had locked on hers.
He swore. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Please, my laird.” Her voice trembled. “I need to speak with you.”
“Not now, Flora,” he growled.
She leaned her body closer to his and moved
her hand in a light, soothing caress over his hot chest. “Please,” she begged. And under her breath she added, “Don’t do this. It’s gone too far already.”
She looked deep into his eyes, and something passed between them. Something that made her heart flutter hard in her chest. Something intense and…significant.
Slowly, he lowered his sword.
The hot rage of battle that had welled inside him eased back, dampened by Flora.
His men dispersed, fading away quietly as Lachlan stood in the hot sun, staring at the fey creature before him, not quite sure what had just happened. Hell, he knew what had happened. After their conversation about Mary, he and Allan had taken their anger to the battlefield. Lachlan didn’t want to think what might have occurred had Flora not stepped in and defused the situation.
Allan had shot him a quick glance before he left. His captain had looked equally taken aback by what had transpired. By how quickly their practice had turned into something altogether different. Damn. This thing with Mary had gotten out of control. How could he not have realized what was happening? Allan might be his friend, but Lachlan was chief, and he had to make his decisions as such—for the good of the clan. Even if those decisions went against his personal feelings.
He glanced down at her tiny hand, still resting on his chest. He couldn’t describe what he felt the moment she had touched him. It was as if her hand had plunged through ice, reaching a part of him he hadn’t even known existed. She’d drawn him back into the light from a dark place. All with a simple touch.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her hand self-consciously. He felt the loss acutely, the severing of a connection the significance of which he was only beginning to comprehend. This woman did something strange to him.
He bent down, picking up the shirt and plaid that he’d tossed over a rock, feeling suddenly exposed. Though he knew it wasn’t his state of undress that bothered him. He folded the clothing over his arm and held out his hand. “Come.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Where are we going?”
“To the water. Then you can tell me what you wished to speak to me about.”
Steeling himself for rejection, he was surprised when she wordlessly slid her hand into his. He ignored the sudden hitch in his chest and led her down the rocky pathway to the water’s edge. Rather than step on the white sandy beach, she pulled back with almost an aversion that he found odd and found a low rock to sit on.
Once again he relinquished his shirt and plaid to a rock, then pulled off his boots and dove into the waves of the sound, allowing the cool water to wash over him and rinse away the sweat and grime of the fight. His muscles burned, and he could have used a long, cold soak, but he was acutely aware that she was waiting. Reinvigorated nonetheless, he stepped up the rocky bank, feeling her big blue eyes on him the whole time, traveling over his chest and arms, unable to hide her interest. His body hardened. He wanted more than her eyes on him. Her hands…for starters. And then that naughty red mouth. She could drive a man wild with erotic images of those softly curved lips.
The heat of battle had left him and been replaced by a different heat. A raw one. For her. Even sitting there in that simple gown, she looked beautiful. Soft and sweetly feminine. Her hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders like a silky golden veil. Her pale cheeks flushed with a hint of pink from the heat of the sun. But it was the taunt of his vivid memories that drove him to distraction. Memories of lush breasts with tight nipples, curvy hips, a round bottom, and long, lean legs.
Completely unaware of the direction of his thoughts, she pointed behind him across the sound. “Is that the Isle of Mull?”
He nodded, reluctantly pulling on his shirt. “The northern edge.”
“And Coll?”
“It lies just beyond Mull to the west.”
She thought for a minute. “So Hector is close?”
“Yes.” He could hear the unspoken question. Then what was taking Hector so long? Wringing the remaining water from his hair with a squeeze of his fingers, he changed the subject. “What is it that you wanted?”
Hands twisting, she gazed up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Eyes that were the same startling blue tinged with green as the sea he’d just sunk into. Mesmerizing eyes. Her long dark lashes shone iridescent in the sun like the edge of a raven’s wing. She took his breath away.
“Mary is unwell,” she said.
His head cleared immediately. “What’s wrong with her?”
She raised her chin to him defiantly. “Her heart is broken.”
He stiffened, the tension returning to the back of his neck and shoulders. “It will mend.” He hadn’t intended to sound so harsh, but damn her for interfering. His sisters were none of her concern.
“You can’t mean that.”
She sounded so certain. He didn’t know what she thought she knew about him, but she was wrong. “I assure you, I always mean what I say.”
“Then you don’t know what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Mary’s marriage was important to the survival of his clan. He’d already had discussions with Ian MacDonald, son of the Chief of Glengarry and brother to Rory MacLeod’s wife, Isabel. Ian was a good man. His sister would be well cared for, with liferents in some important property in Morvern. And his clan would have another important ally in the feud against Hector.
Her mouth pursed with annoyance, a sentiment he well understood. “You have nothing more to say?” she asked indignantly.
“I’m not accustomed to explaining myself.” He gave her a long, hard look. “To anyone.”
She disregarded the warning. “But surely you can see that she loves him.”
Love. Love wasn’t part of the marriage equation. It was the same for Mary as it would be for him. That was the way of it. “She thinks she loves him,” he said. “But Mary is young. With the romantic notions of a girl.”
He started to turn away, indicating that he was finished with the conversation, but she grabbed his arm. Her tiny fingers pressed into the thin linen of his damp shirt. The soft, imploring touch sent waves of heat rippling through him. She was ardent in her beliefs, and he wrestled with the strange urge to please her, though in this, he knew he could not.
“I think you are wrong,” she said flatly. “Mary truly cares for him. You must have seen how she looks at him.” He had, which was why he’d put a stop to it. “Talk to her. Not as a chief, but as her brother.”
She was talking nonsense. “I’m both. But it is the chief who must make the decision for the clan.”
“But she needs a brother. I know you care for your sisters, but you act more like their father than their brother.” A wry smile twisted her lips. “It’s something I’m familiar with. Take the time now to get to know them, before you come to regret it.”
She was wrong. He was very close to his sisters. Not as close as they once were, perhaps, but not by his choice. “I’ve nothing to regret.”
“Not yet. Don’t force her into an unhappy marriage,” she implored, her eyes soft and pleading. “I’ve seen what it can do.”
“My sister isn’t your mother, Flora.”
“Are you so sure? My mother was once a biddable girl who did her duty, and look what it got her—four husbands with varying degrees of cruelty and a lifetime of unhappiness.” He could hear the bitterness and pain in her voice. Dropping her hand, she looked away from him, as if trying to hide the tumult of emotion. But it didn’t work. He could see the toll her mother’s death had taken in the stiff carriage of her shoulders. Here, on the windswept beach, with the harsh sea crashing behind her and the tower keep standing guard like a lone sentinel across a desolate land, she looked unbearably alone. Her refined beauty was a stark contrast to the rugged landscape of the Highlands. A delicate white rose among the hearty Highland heather. A sharp pang pricked his chest. She didn’t belong here.
Would this harsh life destroy her, too? No, he tried to convince himself. Flora was str
ong.
“What was she like?” he asked quietly.
Flora reached down to pick up a flat stone and tossed it across the water, just as the wave pulled back flat from the shore. She managed two skips before it sank sharply into the retreating water. It was something his sisters might do. And hinted of a carefree girl not unaccustomed to the sea. A remnant of her past from Dunvegan, perhaps?
“Sweet,” she said finally. “Gentle. Loving. But always shadowed by sadness.” She paused to look at him. “She was all I had.” The look of misery on her face hit him hard. She glanced back to the water. “When I was young, I used to spend hours devising ways of making her laugh. Little plays, dances, funny costumes. Anything to make her smile.” A wistful look transcended her face. Her skin was flawless. Not a single freckle to mar the ivory perfection. He remembered how soft it was under his fingertips.
Unaware of his scrutiny, she continued. “I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world when she smiled. And when she laughed, I would hear echoes of the happy girl she’d been before she was locked away. My mother was like a caged bird who’d forgotten how to sing. She was beautiful and delicate, a gentle creature who was tossed into a world that was utterly foreign to her.”
“You mean the Highlands?”
Flora nodded. “Yes, but it was more than that. Her husbands were much older and harsh, forbidding men constantly waging war, who didn’t know what to do with a young girl accustomed to gentler pursuits. Her father and brothers should have known better. But she trusted blindly. Trusted that doing her duty was the right thing. But it wasn’t. Not for her. She was never allowed to make decisions for herself. She resented her every move being controlled, and resented the domineering men she was married to. Eventually they broke her.”
He could understand why Janet Campbell had wanted a different life for her daughter. But not all men were like her husbands.