“I know something of the men she was married to.” The stories of Hector’s father were legendary. He was a revered chief, but unquestionably a brutal one. Much like his son.
“You probably know more than I do,” she said wryly. “My father was her last husband, and I don’t remember him much—except that he seemed ancient and remote. My mother never talked in specifics about the men she was married to, but they left a lasting impression on me. I saw what they did to her. So you see what a forced marriage can bring? Do you really want your sister consigned to such a fate?”
“Of course not. Nor do I think she will be. Not all arranged marriages end up the way of your mother’s. My parents were happy enough. And unlike your mother, my sister was raised in the Highlands, this is her home. Besides, the man I have chosen for her is a good man. But I will not force her. If she does not wish to marry him, there are others.”
“But she loves Allan.” Her expression turned fierce. “If I loved a man, nothing could force me to marry someone else.”
Her words chilled him to the bone. The thought of her so passionate about another man made his insides twist. Even though he knew there was nothing to worry about. Nothing would stand in the way of their marriage.
He met her gaze. “I’ve made my decision.”
“And your decisions are always right?”
“They are the only ones that matter,” he snapped, not liking the scorn he heard in her voice. That was what he did. As chief, he made decisions that had broad ramifications for hundreds of people. He had to be decisive and confident. A leader. A man whom men would willingly die for. He damn well better trust himself to be right.
And Flora would have to learn that as well. She seemed to have no understanding of duty and responsibility—or of how difficult it could be to make the hard decisions. Her impulsive decision to take her marriage into her own hands and elope was proof enough of that.
She took a step closer to him. The wind whipped through her hair, sending silky tendrils streaming in wild abandon across her face. “Is there nothing that will change your mind?” she asked.
The world shifted. Day suddenly turned to night. Her innocent plea played tricks on his mind, on the desires of his body, taunting his tightly wrought control. Lust fired his blood. The subtle floral scent of her rose up to trap him in its hypnotic embrace. He couldn’t move. Every instinct clamored to gather her in his arms and take what she offered. It was there between them, crackling with erotic promise.
He knew how good it would be.
God, he was tempted. He wanted to kiss her so badly, it hurt. His fists clenched at his sides as her lips parted. Soft and achingly sweet. Beckoning. Only inches away. His body drummed with need. The urge was so strong, he could almost taste her.
He knew what she was doing, even if she didn’t. Unconsciously using her feminine wiles on him. She’d already proved how much she could affect him, by putting herself between him and Allan earlier. But she was doomed to failure. He would never allow a woman to control his actions. It was a lesson she needed to learn.
The air was thick with tension. He leaned closer, towering over her, letting her feel his heat. “What are you offering?”
The color slid from her cheeks, and she tried to back away. But she stumbled on the uneven rocks, and he reached out to catch her, wrapping her in a fierce embrace. He felt the furious flutter of her heart against his, like a bird caught in a trap. His trap.
“You m-misunderstand,” she stammered.
He traced his fingers down her throat and over the frantic pulse. “Do I?” He held her gaze. “I don’t think so.”
He’d waited long enough. Whatever control he had over his passion had been undone by the exquisite feel of holding her in his arms. His hand snaked behind her neck, and he plunged his fingers through the silky waves of her hair, warmed from the sun, bringing her mouth hard against his with a deep guttural groan. The relief was overwhelming. Her scent. Her taste. The sensation of her soft lips under his. The tightness inside him burst in a slow gush of heat that spread through his veins, and his cock swelled hot and hard against her. He’d been waiting for this for too long.
This time, he did not hold back. It was no gentle wooing, but an explosion of passion. His mouth moved over hers with swift possession as he kissed her with all of the raw hunger raging inside him. He pulled her closer, his fingers caressing the baby soft skin of her neck as he urged her jaw open with his thumb.
And she melted against him. Opening her mouth. Taking him in. Making sweet little sounds of pleasure that drove him wild.
He sank into her, kissing her harder, trying to quench the impossible lust that would not be sated. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, stroking, tasting, devouring, until her tongue entwined with his and she returned his stroke with a parry of her own. It was hot and wet and wickedly carnal. And a little bit rough. Just the way he liked it.
God, it felt good. So damn good. He’d known how it would be between them, but never could he have imagined the powerful feelings surging through him—unfamiliar feelings of possession, tenderness, and longing.
He couldn’t get enough. His lips trailed over her mouth, her jaw, her neck, tasting every inch of her fevered skin.
She sagged against him in sweet surrender. Her hands were on his shoulders, his arms, his back. Feeling him. Clutching him. He felt her passion rise up to meet him, returning his passion with a fervor of her own.
Her kisses were sweet and innocent and utterly potent, but he wanted more. His tongue was in her mouth, deep in her mouth, and his hand was on her breast, squeezing her gently in his palm as he thrust with his tongue. Her breasts were magnificent; he cursed the fabric and stays, wishing he could feel the soft, full weight of all that naked flesh in his hands. His thumb caressed the hard peak of her nipple, and she moaned, arching against his hand.
It was too much. It wasn’t enough. Her soft whimpers of pleasure sent a bolt of lust straight to his groin. He slid his hand down to her bottom, lifting her against him. His erection was rock hard and throbbing as their bodies came together. She rubbed against him, and his knees almost buckled.
He wanted to open her up and fill her. To make her tremble. To make her come as she cried out his name. To make her his. He wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
So much so that it shook him. This clawing need for her.
When she melted against him, touched him, kissed him, she could make him do almost anything. She could bring him to his knees with one kiss.
Hell. He wrenched away with a growl, his body pounding as he fought for control. Never had he felt more threatened, by anyone. “What do you want from me?” he said hoarsely, wanting to take back the words as soon as they were uttered.
“I…,” she gasped, her face stricken as he watched her grapple with what had just happened. Of how they’d come together in a hot burst of flames. And of how easily she’d succumbed. Her eyes rounded. “I don’t know.”
There it was. The crack that he’d been waiting for. He should be happy. She wanted him. He’d won. But it didn’t feel like a victory. He felt like the one who’d lost.
She spun around and started to climb up the hill toward the keep, but not before he saw the look on her face. The truth horrified her. As it did him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her—with an uncompromising intensity that could not be denied.
He’d wanted to teach her a lesson, but it was he who’d been cautioned. Passion worked both ways. In using it against her, he’d been the one burned. She’d gotten under his skin, and he didn’t like it. But it wouldn’t change anything. He wouldn’t let it.
She scrambled up the shore, moving purposefully up the rocky crags.
“Flora,” he called out. She stopped but didn’t turn. “Next time you make an offer like that, I won’t refuse.”
She flinched, and then she ran.
Chapter 7
“Ouch, you stepped on my toe, you big oaf.”
F
lora bit back a smile. The outrage on Gilly’s face was really quite comical. As was the look of fury on her partner’s face. Poor Murdoch. It had taken quite some convincing to get him here in the first place, and now Gilly was about to make Flora’s prodigious efforts come to naught.
Though the lad could still barely look Flora in the eye without blushing, he seemed to take delight in tormenting Gilly. Not to mention ungraciously lording his two additional years over her.
“I warned you, my lady,” Murdoch said. “Court dances are not for warriors. Men don’t dance like we have a rod up our ars—” He stopped at her frown.
After witnessing the sword dance last week, she tended to agree with him, but if the girls were going to go to court, they needed to learn to dance appropriately. Thus she’d gathered a piper, Gilly, Mary, and Murdoch for dance lessons. Mary needed some cheering up, and right now she was stifling a giggle watching her sister spar with Murdoch.
Though Flora had told herself not to get involved while at Drimnin, the temptation had proved too much. She could hardly sit idly by while so many things cried out for her attention. In addition to dance, she’d begun instructing the girls in reading and writing Scots and a little Latin. The most challenging aspect of her project thus far had proved to be the woefully inadequate handful of folios scattered about the keep. As there was no library per se, she’d taken over the laird’s private solar located behind the great hall for her purposes. Her friends at court would be so amused to hear of the Holyrood hellion acting as tutor, but Flora had never felt so useful.
Mary and Gilly weren’t the sole focus of her attentions. She’d also had a few delicate conversations with Morag about improvements around the keep and, despite being banished from the kitchens, about the preparations of the food.
“Warrior. Ha!” Gilly muttered with a snort, just loudly enough for Murdoch to hear.
He took an intimidating step toward her, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to throttle her. Though he was young, Flora saw a shadow of the formidable man he could become. But right now he was still too full of youthful pride, and Gilly had just trampled all over it.
“Nonsense, Murdoch, you are doing very well.” Flora stepped between them, trying to smooth things over. “It was Gilly who got in your way.” She gave her a reproachful stare. “Wasn’t it, Gilly?”
Although she clearly wanted to disagree, Gilly seemed to realize that she was about to lose her partner—and they were horribly shorthanded as it was in that department. Conscripting men to help with Gilly’s and Mary’s dance lessons had proved next to impossible. Flora had never heard so many excuses. The only reason Murdoch was here at all was because Alasdair had volunteered him to avoid coming himself, grumbling that he’d rather clean the garderobe than prance around like a Lowland peacock.
Murdoch looked as though he felt the same way, but they weren’t finished with him yet. They’d already been through some of the popular court dances, including the lively galliard, a modified lavolta—without the scandalous lift—and the coranto. Now she was trying to teach the girls a reel, and they had to have at least four people, though eight would have been better.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Murdoch, it was my fault,” Gilly said sweetly, though her eyes sparked with mutiny. Flora had a feeling she was only biding her time before unleashing a wicked sting of barbs on the poor lad. It’s what she’d have done in Gilly’s place.
“I still don’t see why you’re going to all the trouble, my lady. It’s hardly likely that this one will ever go to court—” He motioned to Gilly. “And it will take more than dancing to make a man forget about a sharp tongue—although I suppose they are Lowlanders,” he said disparagingly.
Flora’s mouth quirked. Apparently, she need not have felt sorry for him. Murdoch could take care of himself.
Gilly’s face flamed, and she looked ready to explode in a tirade, but Flora shot her a staying glance.
“As sisters of a laird, the girls should go to court,” Flora said. “So when the opportunity arises, I want them to be prepared. Shall we try again?” She motioned to Duncan, the piper, who was doing his best to hide his laughter. “Mary?” The girl had drifted off again. Flora walked over to gently turn Mary away from the window, giving her an encouraging squeeze when she saw the look of anguish on her face. The situation with Mary gave her pause. How could the laird do this to his sister? He was wrong. Mary would not outgrow her feelings for Allan. Flora would have to convince Lach—the laird—of it. “Come,” she said to Mary. “Don’t give up,” she urged, not referring simply to the dance. Mary met her gaze and nodded. Flora smiled. “This time you will partner with Gilly.”
As she took them through the steps of the dance again, Flora knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was becoming too attached. To the girls. To the dreadful old keep. And, to be truthful, to the enigmatic man who was its laird.
She was no less confused today than she had been a week ago. What did she want from him? She no longer knew. He evoked a thousand different emotions in her, none of which she wanted to analyze too closely. And never far from her consciousness was the memory of that kiss. Of his mouth. His tongue. His big hands on her body. He’d cupped her breast, and heat had poured through her. She’d come apart in his arms, yielding to him without hesitation.
How could she have reacted like that? She didn’t understand what had come over her. She’d felt his passion and her own. It made her anxious. On edge. For something. Something that made her skin prickle whenever he was in the room with her. Indeed, she found it difficult to concentrate when he was around. He was big and strong and smelled incredible. She wanted to curl up against his chest and never leave. She’d never had such strong urges. But then again, she’d never met a man who made her feel so protected simply by his solid presence and his confident command of everything around him. His strength was strangely soothing. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d felt so…content. And given the circumstances of her presence at Drimnin, that was strange indeed.
Though her attraction to him was undeniable, she couldn’t forget that she was his prisoner. Her thoughts should be of escape. That day at the beach, she’d noticed a small boat moored close to the shore. The Isle of Mull was tantalizingly close. At night, she could probably get to it without being seen. But something held her back, something other than the obvious danger. She’d never liked boats, with good reason. Though Morvern was part of the mainland of Scotland, stealing a horse would be near impossible; the stables were too well guarded.
She told herself she was waiting for Hector, but the longer it took, the more she knew it for a lie. As the days went by with no word from her brother, she realized she’d been right: Hector wouldn’t exchange her for Breacachadh Castle. She barely knew him. It shouldn’t matter. But “should” didn’t prevent the kernel of disappointment and hurt.
The laird must realize that his plan hadn’t worked. The past week had made her even more confident that he was ever so subtly wooing her. And she was forced to admit, it was not without effect. Though it was an unusual wooing, devoid of compliments and heartfelt declarations. None of the social niceties she’d grown accustomed to. Accustomed to and bored with, she realized. Lachlan Maclean was not just rough around the edges; he was rough through and through and every ounce the proud Highland chief.
All her life she’d been brought up to never trust a Highlander and to despise their way of life. But he was different. Watching him with his clan, she admired his leadership, his strength, and his protectiveness toward his men and his sisters. Especially given what she now knew about his past. Of how he’d had to fight and struggle to provide for his clan. They looked at him as nothing less than a hero.
She wanted to trust him, but how could she when he held her prisoner? She still couldn’t reconcile the man who’d abducted her—and prevented his own sister from marrying the man she loved—with the chief she’d grown to admire and the man who’d kissed her at first tenderly and then with su
ch passion.
At times, she felt as if she could be happy here. Mary and Gilly were wonderful, and the laird…for all his rough ways, he held a strange appeal. She could almost believe he might make a good husband.
Husband. Could she really consider such a thing? Marrying a Highlander, forsaking all she knew to live in this harsh, remote landscape? Drimnin didn’t have the luxuries she was used to, but never had she been more comfortable—even, she thought with a wry smile, without silk bed linens, silver candelabra, and gold-encrusted plates. She would miss the pageantry of court, but it wasn’t as if she were being banished—she could always return. And her tocher would go a long way toward helping to update the dilapidated old keep. She would miss her former life, but the prospect of living in the Highlands didn’t appall her as it should. And she knew the reason why: Lachlan Maclean.
But why had he brought her here? He’d sworn he would not force her into marriage, and desperately, she wanted to believe him.
They stumbled through another attempt at the reel before Gilly collapsed, exhausted, on a chair. Murdoch was actually quite a good dancer—when not partnered with Gilly.
“I don’t know why we’re bothering,” Gilly said woefully. “As much as I hate to say it, Murdoch is right. Lachlan will never let us go.”
“He can hardly object if you are my guests. When I return to Edinburgh, you will come and stay with me in my cousin’s lodgings. I will take care of everything.” For once, she was grateful for her wealth.
“You are being so kind and generous….” A shadow crossed Mary’s face. A shadow that looked like guilt. “But it won’t matter. Lachlan despises court. He says it’s a place of intrigue and deception. And corruption.”
Flora thought about it for a moment. There was truth to Mary’s words, but court was also the center of power and a place of excitement and energy, with all the modern conveniences and advantages of society. “There is some truth to what your brother says. But it is not all bad.” She gave Gilly a sidelong glance. “There are balls, dancing, masques…and plenty of handsome young men to partner with.”