Highlander Unmasked (4 page)

As if to prove her point, a man not much taller than her, dressed head to toe in shiny white satin with his trunk hose puffed out as wide as a pumpkin, strode by with a gallant bow in her direction. It wasn’t a secret that Meg sought a husband, and her fortune attracted plenty of interest. She forced a smile to her lips and acknowledged his attentions with a small nod, all the while knowing that he would never do. Ticking through her mental checklist of requirements, she just couldn’t picture this man leading her braw Mackinnon warriors into battle at her brother’s side.

Unfortunately, he was quite typical of the Lowland gentlemen who frequented court. Lowlanders bore closer resemblance to Englishmen than their Highland countrymen. The king’s disdain for Highland “barbarians” was well-known, which in part had compelled this trip to court—to broaden the scope of her search for a husband to include influential men connected to King James’s government.

But how was she supposed to find a man of strength and valor in this garden of preening peacocks?

Not for the first time, Meg’s thoughts slid back to the copse of trees and to the mysterious warrior who’d rescued her. As handsome as Adonis, with the prowess of Ares. Both qualities unnerved her. But perhaps even more unnerving was the realization that she’d been attracted to the man.
Despite
his too handsome face and what she’d witnessed on the battlefield.

He was not at all the sort of man she typically found attractive. His size, for one, was too overwhelming. Big braw men made her…well…nervous. She frowned. Actually, now that she thought about it, everything about him was overwhelming. From his fierce, handsome face, to his unfettered fighting skills, to his blatant masculinity.

Still, she could not forget him, which given the task at hand was disconcerting to say the least. It was an odd experience for her. Meg was not at all the sort of woman to be distracted by a pleasing countenance. She knew better.

It was ridiculous. She didn’t even know who he was, and as she usually did her best to avoid consorting with outlaws, she would most likely never see him again. Her subtle attempts to glean more information about him from the men who’d accompanied them through the forest had been unsuccessful. From their silence, she was even more certain that the men were outlaws. They asked no questions and answered just as many. A more circumspect escort she could not imagine. Even learning their names had been a challenge. They claimed to be Murrays, a name she knew that many MacGregors had assumed after their clan was proscribed. Could her warrior be a MacGregor? It wouldn’t surprise her. But what were MacGregors doing so close to Skye?

Of course, his identity, or lack thereof, only added to the mystery, which no doubt explained her illogical fascination with a man she knew nothing about.

Except that he saved us.
And perhaps that was all she needed to know.

She’d been surprised, and disappointed, that he’d left without speaking to her. She wished she’d found the nerve at least to thank him. She should have put aside her qualms, marched over there, and done it right away. But truth be told, she’d been more than a little bit frightened. The controlled frenzy of his fighting had taken her aback.

She’d been too aware of him and too unsure of herself.

She consoled herself that it was probably just the unusual circumstances she was responding to. A Greek god riding to the rescue at the last moment would make an impression on anyone. Even someone as otherwise level-headed as Meg.

Unfortunately, however, she did not have the luxury of a fairy tale. She needed a real man, not a mythical one. And soon. The thought of returning to Dunakin empty-handed was a sobering one. Her father would be disappointed. And disappointment was the one thing Meg could not bear.

She’d delayed her decision long enough. She could not allow thoughts of her mysterious warrior to distract her from her duty any longer.

“You have that far-off look in your eyes.” Elizabeth spoke, startling Meg from her reverie. “Daydreaming about your handsome rescuer again?”

Her cheeks heated. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t confided quite so many details about the man who’d rescued her. She covered her embarrassment with a frown. “I don’t daydream.”

“But you were thinking of him?”

Meg gave her friend a sharp look. Elizabeth was not easily put off. “Very well. Yes. I was thinking about him.”

“It’s so romantic,” Elizabeth said, sighing dreamily.

Meg rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother. But I assure you, there was nothing romantic about it.” She couldn’t quite repress the shiver as her thoughts flew back to the melee in the forest. “It was awful. We were very lucky to escape with our lives, and Mother with only a knot on her head. So many others weren’t as fortunate,” she said, thinking of Ruadh and the other Mackinnon warriors who’d lost their lives that day.

“I’m s-s-sorry, Meg. I didn’t m-m-mean to s-s-sound insen-n-nsitive. I can’t im-m-magine what you w-w-went through.”

Meg heard her friend’s stammer and felt horrible for making her anxious. Elizabeth rarely stammered around her, as she did when in company with others she felt less comfortable with. She took Elizabeth’s hands and forced a bright smile on her face. “What happened is in the past, and I must look to the future. And an outlaw, no matter how heroic, is not the man for me.”

If only she knew who was.

Finding a suitable husband shouldn’t be so difficult. A warrior her clansmen would follow into battle. A skilled negotiator to pacify the Privy Council. A man of integrity and loyalty to support her brother. But it
was
difficult. With each day that passed, it had become more and more clear that there was only one man who might be suitable: Jamie Campbell, her best friend’s brother.

Elizabeth gave her hands a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Meg. You will find the right man. Or perhaps you already have?” she asked hopefully. It was no secret that Elizabeth wished Meg to marry her brother.

“Perhaps,” Meg replied with an encouraging smile.

In many ways, Jamie Campbell epitomized the type of man her father entrusted her to find. Cousin to Archibald “the Grim” Campbell, Earl of Argyll, Jamie could not be better connected. The Campbells were the most powerful clan in the Highlands, thanks in large part to Argyll’s influence with the king. Jamie had something of his wily cousin in him, and Meg knew that Argyll was becoming increasingly reliant on his young cousin both to exert his influence at court and to enforce his authority in the Highlands.

By virtue of his extraordinary height and natural command, Jamie also had the makings of a great leader. Only two years older than Meg at four and twenty, Jamie still possessed a young man’s build. But in a few years’ time, when he added girth to his frame, he would be a formidable man. A strong, powerful man who would be more than capable of defending Dunakin.

And most important, Jamie was a man of integrity, honor, and unswerving loyalty.

He seemed the perfect choice.

But something still held her back. His youth, perhaps? And his connection to Argyll would be viewed by many Highlanders as a black mark against him. In some quarters, the name Argyll was as reviled as the devil. Clan Campbell’s power in the Highlands had not come without dispute or the shedding of blood. MacGregor blood in particular.

All of a sudden, she felt Elizabeth’s elbow jabbing her ribs. “Hold on a minute. I think I’ve found him for you. The perfect man.”

Meg muffled an unladylike snort and followed the direction of Elizabeth’s dreamy gaze. At first she thought Elizabeth was talking about Jamie, but then another man moved into her view. He had his back to her, though she had to admit, it was a very impressive one. Beneath the heavily embroidered silk of his black doublet, Meg discerned broad shoulders and well-muscled—exceedingly well-muscled—arms. Her pulse jumped. His powerful legs, clad in fitted black venetians, left no doubt of his strength. In a room of colorful satin and silk, he stuck out for his dark masculinity. Even standing next to Jamie, who was a good five inches over six feet, he dominated the room. Although perhaps an inch or two shorter than Jamie, he appeared much larger owing to the solid muscle of his frame.

“Who is he?” Meg asked in what she hoped was an appropriately nonchalant tone.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” Elizabeth answered. “But I’m almost certain that it’s Alex MacLeod.”

Meg raised a brow and tried not to get ahead of herself. “Brother to Chief Rory MacLeod of Dunvegan?” Rory Mor was one of the most revered chiefs in the Isles and a longtime ally of her father’s. An alliance with the MacLeods would be an excellent one.

Elizabeth nodded.

Vaguely, Meg recalled a gangly youth with sun-drenched blond hair and a heart-stopping lopsided grin. Many years ago, Alex had accompanied his brother to the Highland games held at Dunakin Castle one spring. Though Meg was too young herself, she recalled that he sent many female hearts a-patter at Dunakin with that grin.

She frowned, suddenly remembering something else. Meg hoped seeing Alex again wouldn’t be too awkward for her friend. At one time, Elizabeth was to have married Chief Rory Mor.

Confident that Elizabeth was showing no signs of discomfort, Meg returned her attention to the new arrival. It was odd how still he stood. Stone still. Watchful. Completely vigilant of his surroundings. Like a soldier. There was something in his stance that gave her a whisper of trepidation.

Her brows drew together across her nose. “I’ve heard nothing of Alex MacLeod in years.”

“Neither have I,” Elizabeth said. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Meg agreed, always intrigued by a mystery.

Jamie saw her and smiled. He pointed in her direction and started heading toward her. The man turned, and anticipation prickled at the back of her neck as a strong, rugged profile and, moments later, a breathtakingly handsome face came into view. She gasped. Piercing blue eyes pinned her to the ground.

Her heart dropped to her feet.

She would know those ice blue eyes anywhere.

It was him.

Her warrior.

She should have recognized the battle-hardened physique. Admittedly, he looked different. But a shave and a haircut could not disguise the man who’d haunted her dreams.

Without the beard, the true masculine beauty of his face was revealed to startling perfection. His features combined the refined edge of the MacLeod’s Norse ancestors with the raw masculinity of the Celt. Tanned to a dark bronze, his skin gave proof of time spent outdoors beneath the hot summer sun. The hard angles of his cheeks and square jaw were exactly as she remembered. Now, bereft of whiskers, she could see the slight cleft in his chin and smattering of small scars across his nose and cheekbones. Another thin scar cut through his left brow, lending a wicked edge to an otherwise almost too perfect face.

She was surprised to discover that his hair was more blond than brown, much lighter than she’d expected. It reflected the light like a golden halo.

Though there was nothing angelic about this man.

The dark expression on his face took her aback. His gaze swept over her without a flicker of recognition. A shadow of uncertainty stole through her consciousness.

It
was
the same man…wasn’t it?

Bloody hell,
Alex thought.
It’s her.

The woman Jamie Campbell couldn’t stop talking about, his “Meg,” was the one Alex couldn’t seem to forget. He should be furious to find her here. If she recognized him, with one careless word—especially to Jamie—she could shatter a carefully constructed plan, making his task much more difficult. But anger wasn’t what he felt.

Hell.
If Alex weren’t so disciplined and focused on the task at hand, he might have even thought it was a flicker of pleasure.

Apparently his body had no discipline, because it responded right away. The same intense attraction he’d felt that day in the forest hit him hard. It was odd. She was not the typical sort of woman to inspire instant lust. But damned if that wasn’t what he felt. Raw, unbridled desire. Desire that coiled like a fist inside him and would not let go.

She looked different, which wasn’t surprising since the last time he’d seen her she was soaking wet. Now, instead of a simple Highland
arisaidh,
she was gowned resplendently in her court finery, though the pale yellow color of her dress did not flatter her incredible ivory skin. He looked a little closer. Nor did the gown seem to fit too well; it hung shapelessly on her dainty figure.

Her hair was lighter brown than he’d realized. Rather than tumbling loose around her shoulders in enticing damp tendrils, she had it arranged in a tight, severe knot at the back of her head. But it was more than just the change of clothes and hair. Her expression was different. The serious-looking woman staring at him looked nothing like his vulnerable wood nymph.

Still, he had no doubt it was the same lass. The tiny, heart-shaped face and enormous soft green eyes were unmistakable.

As was the heat that surged through him the moment their eyes met.

He quickly turned his gaze, but not before he saw the look of shock on her face, followed quickly by recognition.
Which was definitely a problem.
Knowledge of his presence so near Skye only a few weeks ago could lead to questions with which he’d rather not have to contend.

He would not let anything, or anyone, interfere with his mission. Certainly not one wee lass, no matter how hot she fired his blood.

Alex had been sent to court on behalf of his brother, Rory, and the other Island chiefs, to discover what he could about the rumor of a second attempt by the king to colonize the Isle of Lewis with Lowlanders. The Lowland colonists, the so-called Fife Adventurers, had been repulsed from Lewis once before. It was Alex’s sole purpose to ensure that if they tried again, they would fail again.

“Colonize” was the king’s euphemism for displacing Highlanders and stealing their land. Convinced that the Highlands were an unmined source of riches with which to fill the ever insatiable royal coffers, the king had enacted a series of laws intended to divest the clans of land they’d held for hundreds of years.