Highlander Unchained (30 page)

She lifted her gaze to his. “I just thought the girls might like a day away from the monotony of the castle. It will be fun.” She paused. “Perhaps Allan could go as well.” His eyes narrowed, guessing what she was up to. “You did promise to reconsider your decision about Mary.”

He gave her a long look. “I have.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass, but my decision stands. The alliance with Ian MacDonald of Glengarry is too important.”

Flora didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. “I see.” But she didn’t. He still didn’t understand. Still didn’t see that his sister should have a choice. He saw only duty.

“And what about you, Flora? Have you reconsidered?”

“How can you speak of our marriage when your sister is so unhappy? You would force her to a marriage she doesn’t want.” She let the implication fall. She could never marry a man who had so little regard for his sister’s wishes. It was too similar to what had happened to her mother.

His gaze hardened almost imperceptibly, but she recognized the small changes in his expression that weeks ago would have seemed nothing.

“I am not forcing her. Mary understands that we all must make sacrifices for the good of the clan, why can’t you?”

But marriage shouldn’t be a sacrifice she should be asked to make. Flora knew he was right: Mary would go through with it out of some warped sense of duty. In that they were very different. “I would never marry a man in that situation.”

He tensed. “But this isn’t about you. It’s about Mary. This isn’t your fight, yet you’ve turned it into your personal crusade.”

Flora bristled. “You’re wrong. I only want to give Mary a chance at happiness. I thought you would understand.”

“I do understand, Flora. But my sister’s feelings are not the only issue.”

“But you said—”

“I did not promise to change my mind, only to reconsider. I did so.”

“But—”

“Do not try to manipulate me to your bidding, Flora.”

“Are you sure it is not the other way around?” she asked, referring to his seduction.

A strange expression crossed his face, and not for the first time she wondered if there was something else behind that look. She studied his face, wishing she could see through stone. “Why did you really bring me here?”

He hesitated. “To get my castle back from your brother.”

“And to marry me?”

His gaze flickered over her face. “It seemed a good idea.”

Her instincts flared. He was clearly choosing his words with care. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Many reasons.”

“Such as?”

Her persistence was getting to him, and his annoyance was evident in the flex of his jaw and the white lines around his mouth. “What would you like me to say, Flora? I know how you feel about your situation as a marriage prize.”

She lifted her chin. “The truth.”
I can take it. I hope.

He held her gaze. “You are beautiful, rich, powerfully connected, and”—he gestured to the amulet—“a symbol to my people as an end to an eighty-year curse. I’d be a fool not to want to marry you.”

She flinched. She’d asked for the truth, and he’d given it to her. But why did it have to sting so much?

He must have sensed the pain his frank words caused, because in the next instant she was in his arms. “Just because I recognize your value as a potential bride doesn’t mean I can’t want you for myself.”

She heard it in his voice: He was telling the truth. Her eyes flickered across his face, looking for signs, anything that would point her in the right direction. “And there is no other reason?”

Why did she always have to push him? Couldn’t she just leave well enough alone?

It was the question Lachlan didn’t want to answer. If there was ever a time to tell her the truth, this was it.

He felt as if he were being torn in opposite directions, forced to choose between two undesirable ends. He could tell Flora about his bargain with Argyll and risk his brother and clan if she refused him, or lie and tell her there was no other reason he wanted to marry her in the hope that it would impress her enough to accept his suit.

He knew she was wavering—warring with desire and her fear of being used like her mother. If he told her, it would only confirm those fears. He could guess how she would react. He was using her—for honorable ends—but using her nonetheless. And now that he knew her, he understood what that would do to her. She cared for him, of that he was certain; but would it be enough to forgive his manipulation? For that was how she would see it.

Who was he fooling? Any choice he had was illusory. He needed Argyll’s help, and he must do what was necessary to get it. He might be able to retake his castle by siege or subterfuge, but at what cost? He’d lost too many men already, and the fighting would only further infuriate a king who wanted an end to feuding. But then there was his brother, imprisoned at Blackness Castle—the king’s impenetrable stronghold. He’d never be able to secure his brother’s release from Blackness without Argyll’s influence, and attempting to break him out by force would be a suicide mission.

If only there were another way. Any attempt to free John would have to be undertaken with cunning and trickery, and thus far, Lachlan had been unable to think of a suitable plan—one that would not unduly risk more men.

He also realized that if he told her about his bargain with her cousin, he could very well lose her. And that was something he couldn’t risk. Once his brother was safe, he swore he would explain everything.

It was an untenable situation, one that he wanted to end.

He felt her scrutiny as she waited for his response. Scrutiny that only increased his frustration with the entire situation. “Why must you persist in denying what is between us?” he said almost angrily. “Are you so worried about ending up like your mother that you would rather end up alone?”

Flora recoiled as if he’d struck her. “Of course not. You don’t know what you are talking about.”

She started to spin away, but he grabbed her arm and swung her back toward him. Close enough to feel the flutter of her heart and inhale the intoxicating floral scent that surrounded her—taunting him. His body grew taut with anger and desire. “You know what I think, Flora? I think you are scared. Scared to take a chance. So scared you’ll make the wrong decision that you reject everyone who comes too close. Your brothers. Your sisters. Me. Your life has been as much a reaction against your mother’s life as it has been your own. You are too busy fighting everyone to recognize those who only want the best for you.”

Her cheeks flushed an angry red. “How dare you! You have no right—”

“I have every right,” he growled. He heard the fury in his voice, but damn it, she pushed him, prodding parts of him that had never before been exposed. “The moment you gave yourself to me, I earned that right. What does it matter other than I care for you and you care for me? Does it matter how it came to be? Or why I want you, other than the fact that I do?” He knew he was trying to convince himself, almost as much as he was trying to convince her, skating precariously close to the truth.

“It matters to me,” she said softly, her eyes bright.

She looked so proud and vulnerable at that moment, he wished he could take her in his arms and wipe away her fears with his mouth. “It shouldn’t. I would never hurt you, lass. Not intentionally. I want to protect you. Cherish you. Take care of you. Surely you know that?” It was the truth. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her—completely. Body and heart.

“I don’t know what to think.”

He buried his face in the warmth of her silky hair, nuzzling the baby soft skin of her neck, aroused to the breaking point by the erotic sensation of her responsive body pressed against his. “Maybe you are thinking too much.”

He felt her softening, melting against him…wanting him.

Blood surged through his veins. “I should go,” he said, pulling back forcibly. “Unless there is a reason for me to stay?”

Eyes wide, she shook her head. “Y-you never said where you are going.”

He stiffened at the reminder. He thought about telling her exactly where he was going and the reports of abuse against his people by her brother Hector on Coll, but without proof he wasn’t sure she would believe him. He didn’t need any more barriers between them. “To attend to some of my lands. I will return later tonight. I should be going.” He started to pull away, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Lachlan.”

He looked down at her, surprised—and pleased—to hear the intimacy of his given name on her tongue. For a moment, he actually thought she might have changed her mind.

“You never answered my question.”

No, he hadn’t. Nor would he. He cupped her chin in his fingers and lowered his face, keeping his gaze locked on hers, wanting nothing more than to cover her mouth and taste her. To feel her tongue slide in his mouth, entwining with his. “I said all that was important. Now it’s for you to decide. Take a chance or live in the past, it’s up to you.” Unable to resist, he dropped a soft kiss on her lips, lingering as his mouth moved over hers in a possessive caress. The urge to deepen the kiss was primal, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He lifted his head, seeing desire mirrored on her face. “Let me know what you decide.”

And without another word, he left her to ponder their future.

Hector stormed through the gates of Breacachadh on his destrier, more furious than he’d been in some time—since the last time the Laird of Coll had gotten the best of him.

He dismounted and tossed his reins to the waiting stable lad. Sweat poured off his forehead from behind the metal helmet, and his body shook with rage.

Lachlan Maclean had been right under his nose and had escaped. And not alone. He’d absconded with half a dozen men and a few market-ready head of cattle as well.

Men and cattle that belonged to Hector.

When word had come of Coll’s presence on the isle, Hector couldn’t believe his luck. He’d raced to reach him, but by the time he’d arrived, the skirmish was over.

A score of his warriors had been bested by a mere handful of Coll’s. His fists clenched with the urge to thrash someone.

Damn Coll!
He would pay. Not only for the loss of men and source of silver—both of which he needed in his war with MacDonald—but for daring to abduct his valuable sister.

He pushed through the entrance into the great hall, paying no mind to the mud and muck he tracked across the rugs strewn over the wooden floors.

Where was that bloody woman? “Mairi!” he bellowed, in no mood for recalcitrant servants. The dour old maidservant finally appeared in the doorway, moving with the speed of an aged tortoise.

“Get me my claret and be quick about it.”

“Yes, my laird.”

There was nothing outwardly mocking about the response, but Hector heard it nonetheless. Blood pounded in his ears. He was fed up with morose and belligerent servants. These people would learn respect. They would learn who was laird.

He tossed his claymore to the squire who’d followed him in. “Clean this. And if it’s not sharp this time, I’ll cut off your incompetent hand.”

The fear he saw on the lad’s face was a soothing balm to his anger. That was better. If they didn’t listen to reason, they would listen to his iron fist. But they
would
listen.

Mairi returned with his drink. God, he was thirsty. His mouth was as dry and parched as a desert. He took a long drink and nearly choked, spewing the dark liquid across the floor. His eyes narrowed at the stubborn old biddy. “How dare you serve me this swill. Bring me another flagon.” He met the woman’s defiant glare. His fingers tightened around the goblet. “And while you’re at it, find your daughter.” The woman’s eyes widened with horror. He smiled. “What was her name? Janet? I’d like to…talk to her.”

He’d finally gotten her attention. The woman’s hands fluttered anxiously like the wings of a bird. “I’m afraid my daughter is gone, my laird.”

“You’ll find her and bring her to me,” he said with deadly calm. “Or if you’d rather, you can bring me your other daughter.”

The defiance sagged right out of her, but the broken expression on her face failed to move him one inch.

“But my laird, she’s just three and ten.”

He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.” He gave her a hard look. “You choose. But I’ll have one of them. If you defy me, I’ll have them both.”

The old woman’s eyes took on an unnatural brightness. “It was the devil that brought you here. A curse you are. But our laird will return—”

“Hold your tongue, woman, or I’ll cut it out.” She shot him an evil glance before she moved to do his bidding. Fools. He didn’t want to hear any more about damn curses. He was tired of the crazed superstitions of these people. He knew they blamed him for the failure of the crops this year, which was ridiculous considering the wind and rain that had pummeled the small isle.

The wrath of the lady, they claimed. Hector had forgotten about the curse until the old witch Beathag, Coll’s healer, had mentioned it. And with his mother dead, he realized who now wore the amulet—Flora.