When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1) (14 page)

She had to be stronger and colder;
she could not hope for something that would never be. When he made her feel
warm with a compliment or a touch, she needed to remind herself it was merely lust
and would never be more. She could not
allow
herself to lower her defenses. He was like a handsome conqueror who could storm
her heart and take it if she were not very careful, and she knew too well the
heartbreak of wanting love from someone who was not capable of giving it.

Iain squeezed her a bit tighter in
his arms, and his fingers fanned across her belly, gently rubbing as if he knew
her thoughts. It was so typical of a man to want to take from a woman but not
give in return. Marion held onto this thought and let it fuel her anger. He
wanted to take his pleasure but give nothing back. Her cheeks heated at the
memory
of the way he’d lavished kisses on the most sensitive part of her body.

She worried her lip as she thought.
She had to confess that he’d given her pleasure and had seemed to love doing
it.

He was giving her protection. He
was quick to keep her safe and care for her. Her heart tugged remembering how
he’d come to her rescue with Froste, then at her father’s castle, then again at
the river.
So he’d give his life for her but not his love to
her?
It was a depressing thought and one that, along with her aching body, exhausted
her. She had no idea what to do besides try not to allow herself to be hurt too
much by him. The best way she knew to do that was to keep herself away from
him, emotionally and physically, as much as possible.

With that thought in her head, she
braced herself for the cold, and shifted slightly forward. But within moments,
her teeth were chattering. Within an hour, being cold had so exhausted her that
she could no longer keep her eyes open. She closed them and allowed her body to
sway with the cantering of the horse.

Iain hadn’t realized Marion had fallen asleep until
she suddenly slumped forward. He caught her and gently leaned her against his
chest. With her head resting against him, he tightened his hold around her
waist, feeling each deep breath she took.

He could not resist pressing his
lips to her head and inhaling her fragrant scent. She stirred in her sleep, and
wiggled her bottom, immediately making him hard. He clenched his teeth.

His need for her had grown with
each hour she rode between his thighs. Why had he made that foolish offer not
to bed her tonight? Sometimes the best thing for sore muscles was to use them
again. He immediately shoved the greedy thought away. He suspected that idea
did not hold true for the soreness of losing one’s innocence. As he held her
close, her fragrant flowery smell surrounding him, her soft body languid in his
arms, and her silky hair blowing against his face, that same fierce need to
keep her from any harm rose in him.

If Alex was not such a good friend,
Iain would forego the MacLean hold and head directly home. He had an uneasy
feeling about stopping at Alex’s. While what Rory Mac had said about Alex was
true—women did seem to find him irresistible—that wasn’t what was making Iain
nervous. He trusted Alex, and he wasn’t worried that Marion would be untrue. He
knew her well enough now to discern she was honorable. It was Alex’s men that
made Iain tense. They were known for their violent ways, which was helpful in
wartime but not when it came to women. They were not going to be able to resist
staring at Marion with desire, and
that
was going to make him angry. He
needed to show the men immediately that Marion belonged to him, and he’d not
abide any man looking at her with lust.

These thoughts were still in Iain’s
head as he led them up the winding trail to Alex’s hold. He expected to
encounter guards at the main entrance to the castle grounds, but as Iain and
his kin curved around a bend, a large, loud group of men on horseback came out
of the woods. All laughter and talking stopped when the men saw them.

Rory Mac brought his horse up to
the side of Iain’s as the men approached, and Angus, with Neil sitting in front
of him, came to flank Iain’s other side. The MacLeans smelled of sweat and
animal blood, and Iain could see that several of them had dead deer and rabbits
strapped to their mounts. One man had great spiky antlers strapped to his horse
along with a satchel soaked with blood. The man had the blood of the animal
smeared under his eyes and down the bridge of his nose to show he’d made the
greatest kill of the day, and it was to this man that Iain looked.

Angus spoke in a low undertone.
“That one will have the feeling of power from the kill flowing though him.”

“Aye,” Iain agreed, following
Angus’s
gaze
to the man Iain had already marked as trouble.

The painted man moved ahead on his
stallion and approached, the other eight slightly behind him. Iain didn’t have
time to gently wake Marion. He gave her a hard shake, and when her eyes
fluttered open, he whispered in her ear. “We’re at the MacLean hold. Dunnae
talk until I say ye can.”

She stiffened in his arms, but her
gaze darted to the side. She must have seen the men, because her eyes widened
and she gave a quick nod.

“Well, if it’s nae the legendary
MacLeod,” the painted warrior said with a trace of contempt.

Iain gripped the reins of his
destrier. He didn’t like being at the disadvantage with the stranger knowing
his name. “And who are ye?”

The man grinned. “Do ye nae
remember me, then, Iain?”

Iain studied the man for a
moment—sparse red hair, blue eyes, and a jagged scar above his upper lip. Iain
recognized
that scar. He’d stood over Bridgette MacLean as she’d clumsily sewn the gash in
her cousin’s lip together. Alex had given it to him for disobeying an order and
nearly getting ten clansmen killed rescuing him.

“Ye’ve grown, Archibald,” Iain said
to the once impulsive and impetuous boy now turned man. He was careful to keep
his words void of emotion to disguise his surprise. The last time he’d seen
Archibald MacLean, he’d barely come to Iain’s shoulder. The man now almost
looked Iain eye to eye.

“That happens in four years. Ye’d
nae be amazed if ye’d seen me, but since I was banished from battles…”
Bitterness tinged Archibald’s words.

“Ye should consider yerself
fortunate,” Iain said, irritated that the man still seemed to be foolish. “If
ye were my clansman and ye disobeyed my orders in battle and nearly got my men
killed trying to rescue ye, I would have banished ye from the clan. Alex is a
much kinder laird than I am.”

“I do consider myself fortunate,”
Archibald said. “And I’m nae angry with Alex, if that’s what ye think. I’m
angry with myself for the battles I missed and the men that died when I ken I
could have saved them.”

“I see ye learned humility in your
time in the stables,” Rory Mac added with a snort.

Archibald smirked at Rory Mac.
“I’ve about as much humility as I remember ye having. And I dunnae speak
anything but the truth. I was always one of the best warriors, even when young.
Ye ken that. What I lacked was patience and forethought.”

Iain spoke before Rory Mac could
reply. Rory Mac and Archibald tended toward quick-heated anger, and Iain did
not want to break up a fight. “Are ye saying ye have learned those two things?”

Archibald grinned. “If I had nae
learned those two virtues, do ye think Alex would have let me join his forces
once more?”

“Nay,” Iain said. “I dunnae.
Welcome back.”

Archibald accepted Iain’s words
with a tilt of his head, but the man had already pointedly shifted his gaze to
Marion. “I’m sorry for the loss of Catriona,” he said, his tone sincere.

“I thank ye,” Iain replied, feeling
uncomfortable. It had been quite some time since he’d had to withstand the
looks of sorrow and pitying words. It used to be that his chest would tighten,
but it did not now, surprising him. Maybe time was finally healing the wound,
or maybe he was just learning to control the gut-wrenching reaction that
occurred when someone reminded him that Catriona was gone.

Archibald slowly swept his gaze up
and down Marion in a manner that made Iain instantly aware that the man liked
what he saw. Iain had a sudden, intense dislike for Alex’s cousin. Angus must
have felt it, too, because he growled low in his throat.

Archibald smiled as he stared at
Marion. “So who do ye have here? Is she a gift for Alex?”

“She is nae a gift for Alex,” Iain
said through clenched teeth.

On either side of him, he saw Rory
Mac and Angus each touch their weapons as Marion’s hand clutched Iain’s thigh.
He wanted to press his palm over her hand to reassure her that she was safe,
but to show he cared might make her even more appealing to Archibald. Even as a
young lad, he had always pursued what he thought he could not attain. Iain did
not wish to start his visit with Alex by thrashing his cousin if it could be
avoided.

Archibald’s grin widened.
“Excellent. I’ll take her.” He started to reach forward as if to grab Marion
off Iain’s horse, but Iain whipped out his dagger and pointed it at the man.
Archibald may have grown into a man, but the heart of who he was had not
changed a bit. The only way he’d accept the truth is by having it clarified
with a threat.

“She’s nae a gift for anyone.” Iain
glared at the man. “She’s my property, and I dunnae share what I own.”

Marion grew even tenser in Iain’s
arms. Didn’t the woman know he’d not let any harm come to her?

“What’s yer name?” Archibald
demanded of her.

Marion inhaled a sharp breath as if
to answer, but Iain cut her off. “Her name is the MacLeod’s wife,” he growled.
“That is what ye may call her unless I say otherwise. Do ye ken?”

Archibald eyed Iain for a long
moment, then Iain’s dagger. He nodded with a smile. “I did nae ken ye married
again. Is she a Scottish lass? Such things usually reach us quickly.”

“Nay. She’s from England.”

“Och, that explains it, then. I’m
sorry for ye,” Archibald said, shaking his head. “Come. I’ll lead ye to Alex.”

Iain didn’t correct Archibald’s
assumption that Marion was a cold Englishwoman. It was better to let him think
that so that he’d not bother with her.

Iain simply nodded and motioned for
Rory Mac, Angus, and Neil to follow.

If it were possible to spit fire, Marion was sure
she’d be shooting blazing flames out of her mouth and nostrils right now. She
was that mad. She glared ahead as Iain guided his horse toward the towering,
foreboding hold in the distance. She was about to tell him exactly what she
thought of him instructing people to call her “the MacLeod’s wife,” and just as
bad was his obvious distaste for his English wife, but the man with the dark
gaze, Archibald, placed himself beside Iain and started asking him questions
about their king, David, and his captivity in England.

Through the anger roaring in her
ears, she learned that David had been imprisoned in England for eleven years
already. She’d not known it had been that long. Father had mentioned the King
of Scots before, and what he’d said was that King Edward wanted a Scottish king
he could control, and David was not a man to be controlled, which was likely
why he was still imprisoned. She knew little else because Father didn’t consider
her worthy of talking to about—or capable of understanding—politics. Perhaps
she’d ask Iain later. She thought he’d likely tell her more of the history, at
least.

She sat silently as they rode, but
when Marion heard the man Archibald refer to her once more as “the MacLeod’s
wife,” she felt as if smoke was coming from her, but no one seemed to notice or
care. She cut her gaze to her left and met Angus’s eyes. Her stomach clenched
at the pity and worry swimming in her friend’s green gaze.

I’m sorry, lass,
he mouthed.

She nodded and quickly turned away,
not wanting to show her anger to him. Even though Iain was Angus’s laird, she
didn’t doubt that Angus’s loyalty was with her, and because of that, she didn’t
want him to see how upset and hurt she was by Iain’s treatment. Knowing Angus,
he’d lose his temper and say something he should not. Iain may be a reasonable
man, but she doubted he’d stand for one of his clansmen telling him how to
treat his wife. Besides that, she was married now, and she was Iain’s
“property,” as he’d so rudely told everyone. She squeezed her hands together.
If she’d had any doubts that Iain only cared for her for the pleasure she could
give him, she had none now.

With Iain referring to her as “the
MacLeod’s wife,” everyone would soon know he had little regard for her. She
gritted her teeth at the familiar pain of being the one who didn’t belong. Her
father had been quick to point out often that she was only half-English, and
now she supposed she was only half-Scottish, and worse, an intruder in Iain’s
life and his clan. Though Rory Mac had been nice enough, as well as Neil, she
suspected once his clan saw she was not loved by Iain, they would ignore her,
just as most everyone had done at her father’s home.

She jerked a hand through her hair,
and her fingers became stuck in the tangled mess. She slowly unthreaded her
fingers from her matted locks and brought her hands in front of her. Dirt
smudged her skin and had caked itself under her nails. She could only imagine
how awful she must look.

Maybe her appearance had
embarrassed Iain and that was why he’d treated her so. The thought made her
frown. If it was, the man was a shallow goat. She almost wanted to not bathe
until they reached his home just to teach him a lesson, but the fact was that
her skin itched and so did her scalp, and she really did feel dirty. No, she
wasn’t going to forego a bath, if she could get one, just to torture him. There
were other ways to do that. Well, really only one, which was to
deny
him her body. She doubted he’d force her to join with him, at least not here at
the MacLean hold. The problem was that she had enjoyed his touch, too.

Just the memory of it made her feel
warm and tingly. But perhaps if she refused him until he at least gave her the
respect she deserved, he’d treat her better. She could feel her brows pulling
together. Would those actions make him treat her better or make him so angry he
became a brute? Oh, how she wished her mother were still alive and she could
ask her what to do. She needed advice, but she had no one with whom she could
talk. Certainly not Angus. Just the thought of trying to tell him these
particular problems burned her cheeks.