To Desire a Highlander (21 page)

What she did see was Roag hefting poor Skog onto his shoulder. Regrettably, his kindness to her dog only reminded her of his promise that he aye kept his word.

And that unsettled her.

No, it terrified her.

Just as he clearly intended to honor his vow to carry Skog up and down the stairs, so would he also slay her kin where they stood if she dared to vex him.

Despite all, she was sorely tempted.

It went against her nature to bow down before criminals—and to her, he was no less villainous.

That he was kind to old dogs meant nothing.

Once, long ago on a wee neighboring island, a half-crazed man had slit the throats of all his four neighbors, claiming their large number ruined the isle’s peace.

That man had loved dogs, having over a dozen he doted on.

Roag the Bear had sworn to kill many more men than four. And his potential victims weren’t strangers. They were her nearest and dearest kin, blood of her blood.

She took a long, deep breath of the chill sea air, bracing herself to give the performance of a lifetime. To pretend she hadn’t just become the handfasted bride of a dead man, but that he’d also taken her innocence, a deed she’d supposedly accepted and enjoyed.

Praise the gods, she’d woken first. It had been no small feat to wash and dress in the dark, and so swiftly as she’d done. But she’d managed. The alternative, tending her ablutions and pulling on her clothes before his wicked eyes, had spurred her on.

He’d taken his time.

She’d positioned herself at the window, keeping her back to the room until he was decent.

Now he was provoking her further, winning Skog’s gratitude, and also by pausing at the foot of her bed to retrieve the bloodied roll of bed linen.

She’d hoped he’d forgotten.

“Must you take that belowstairs?” Her cheeks heated as he tucked the sullied cloth beneath his belt.

“Aye, I must.” He shifted Skog in his arms, reached to pat the cloth. “Proof that I ravished you.”

Gillian leaned toward him. “They’ll believe you without seeing a blood-smeared cloth.”
With your swagger, no man would dare doubt it.
“It’s a barbaric custom.”

“And a well-kept one.” He opened the door, stepping out onto the landing. “If all such virtue-trophies were laid in a row, there’d be enough to circle this fine realm more times than a man can count.”

Aye, a man!

Gillian kept the sentiment to herself and followed him down the winding stair. She didn’t have a choice, really. Devilish as he was, if she even hesitated, he’d surely deliver Skog safely to the hall and then return for her, tossing her over his shoulder as he’d done with her dog.

Only he’d use much less care with her.

She frowned and hitched her skirts as they neared the bottom steps. In her wildest dreams, she’d not have been able to imagine such an infuriating man.

He stopped at the base of the stair tower to lower Skog to the floor as gently as if the old dog were made of glass-spun ribbons. Most annoying of all, she could tell he truly cared for Skog’s well-being.

And didn’t her pet turn adoring, grateful eyes on him?

It was beyond toleration.

Gillian tightened her lips, waiting to see what else he would do. She also needed to steel herself to face her family, to play the role that would save their lives.

She just hoped they still were breathing.

She didn’t see them anywhere in the hall and would have been horrified, but not surprised, if Roag the Bear had ordered his men to have done with them as they’d slept.

Squinting to see through the smoke haze that seemed
much thicker now than yestere’en, she felt her nape prickle when she noticed that Roag’s men also appeared different.

All big, bearded men with strong faces, some of them—the ones scattered about the hall’s perimeter—wore harder expressions. Studying them more closely, she was sure that she caught the glint or bulge of hidden weapons. Swords, dirks, and axes, carefully tucked beneath plaids or cloaks, but noticeable on second glance. Certainly more arms than were needed inside a hall. Especially at a time when men would normally be claiming places at the long rough tables, thinking only to break their fast.

Gillian’s heart sank when she spotted two other stony-faced warriors appearing to lean casually against the wall near the tower’s main door.

They were perilously close to the many spears and swords propped in a corner of the keep’s entry.

“What’s the meaning of this?” She turned to Roag, kept her voice low. “Why are some of your men armed like guards? And where is my father? My brothers, and their oarsmen?”

“My men are prepared to act if you forget yourself.” He stepped closer, going nose to nose with her, tucking her hair behind an ear as if it was a loving gesture. “ ’Tis only as a reminder that they’re allowing you to see their arms. Your kin will no’ notice, as men see only what they expect.”

Lowering his hand, he smiled down at her. “Your family are untouched,” he said, pitching his voice so that only she could hear him. “They already sit at the high table.” He nodded in that direction. “Can you no’ see them?”

“No, and I still don’t.” She frowned, but now understood why she’d missed them.

Even more of Roag’s rough-looking warriors stood near the raised dais. Their broad backs hid the high table, as did the combined smoke from the fire and the many wall torches at that end of the hall. A thick haze hung in the air, the smoke almost stinging her eyes. But if she peered around or between the men, she could now see her family. Unless she was mistaken, they were all present.

“Praise be.” She pressed a hand to her breast, relief making her almost weak-kneed. “I thought you’d—”

“Killed them in their sleep?” He slanted a glance at her.

“You did say it was possible.”

“I dinnae strike any man no’ full by his wits and looking me in the eye. My men would tell you the same.” He spoke softly, his voice’s cold edge chilling her. “Your kin are only at risk if you tell—”

“I won’t.” She wouldn’t.

“Then take my arm,” he said, offering it to her. “Come with me into the hall.”

“With pleasure.” Gillian forced the lie as she hooked her arm through his and he led her forward, straight through his milling phalanx of men. “ ’Tis a fine morning,” she added, even managing to speak lightly should any of his men be particularly long-eared.

It wouldn’t surprise her.

He surely had his most vigilant spies trailing them, ready to spring if she made one false move.

So she deigned to disappoint them and turned her brightest smile on Roag, glancing at him with seeming affection.

Some of his men exchanged glances. One or two coughed and looked aside, clearly not knowing what to make of her unexpected fondness for their leader.

A man who was pulling her deeper into the hall, and—she couldn’t believe it—who was unfurling the soiled roll of linen and waving it in the air like a banner.

Gillian’s smile froze. “You can’t do this. Please…”

Beside them, Skog began to bark, his milky gaze on the linen. Either he thought Roag wished to play or he was excited. Perhaps he recalled the banner that always snapped in the wind on Sway’s battlements. Skog had enjoyed patrolling her home’s ramparts until age made it too difficult for him to climb the tight and winding battlement stair.

“It’s a point of pride, lass.” Roag leaned in, dropped a kiss on her brow. “The men would demand to see it.”

“Your men must know it’s not real.”

“They know me, so will think it well could be.”

She didn’t doubt it.

She already knew he was well-lusted. He was also outrageously bold, seeming not to care what society thought of him.

Proving it, he waved the cloth higher, calling out to her father as they neared the dais steps. “MacGuire of Sway, I greet you this fair morn! See here the proof of your daughter’s virtue.”

A cheer rose above the din of men’s talk and Skog’s barking. Boisterous shouts and well wishes spread as all present swiveled their heads to watch Roag brandish the cloth. Even his own men played along, those already seated rapping on the long tables with the blunt ends of their eating knives. Others raised balled hands in the
air and stamped their feet. The noise was deafening and only increased as Gillian’s father sprang up and pushed through the throng, leaving the dais to stride over to them.

“My daughter!” He gripped her hands, beaming. “How I have waited for this day! To see such a smile on your face and know you have a man to care for and protect you. One able to keep you happy, always!

“ ’Tis clear that is so.” He turned to Roag, nodding in satisfaction when he lowered the blood-smeared cloth and began rolling it up again. “I aye knew you’d be a good match for my gel. A shame it took so long for you to return to claim her.”

“Indeed.” Roag didn’t hesitate, his voice sounding so sincere that Gillian wanted to kick him. “But now I am here, she is mine, and she shall want for nothing.”

He glanced at her and she smiled, hoping her silence wouldn’t annoy him.

If she tried to speak, she’d either scream or cry.

Both possibilities could have dire consequences.

Her grinning sire had no idea of the evil before him. She knew, and much as it pained her, the love she felt for her father and her brothers gave her little recourse but to speed them on their way. They needed to leave before she became too angry to check her temper. And so that none of her brothers had time to observe her and her handfasted husband too closely.

Her father’s eyes weren’t the best, but her brothers might notice the distress she was trying so hard not to show. Their wits were sharp, and that could pose a problem if she weren’t careful.

Gowan, especially, knew her better than most. He’d be quick to sense that all wasn’t well.

So she slipped her hands from her father’s grasp and stepped closer, cradling his beloved face. “I will miss you so much,” she said, pushing the words past the thickness in her throat. “But you must catch the strongest currents, and they will be running now. If you’ve already eaten, then—”

“You’d have me away so soon?” His smile widened and he flashed it at Roag. “Belike you’ve already replaced me in her affection, laddie! She wants to be alone with ye.”

“I am honored.” Roag sounded as if he was, even looking every inch the ensorcelled bridegroom.

Gillian felt ill.

“Wanting you gone doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” She smoothed her fingers through her father’s hair, the deep red shade so like her own. “Go swiftly, please.”

“You’re no’ vexed with me?” His face sobered, and a flicker of guilt glimmered in his eyes. “I ken you ne’er suspected I’d hoped our journey here would end in a handfast.”

“No, I didn’t know.” She hadn’t. “It scarce matters now and isn’t of any import. You chose well years ago, betrothing me to Donell,” she added, finding it so hard to speak the name. “He is a good man and treats me well.”

Donell is dead and at the bottom of the sea. This man is false, only being nice before you.

The unspoken words danced on her tongue, aching to break free.

She took a deep breath, knew she had to be strong.

“Ours will be a good match. I shouldn’t have fashed myself all these years. No doubt I was too young to appreciate him at our betrothal,” she reassured him, her insides twisting because Roag had finished rerolling the linen and was handing it to her father.

The two of them were a grand pair, both beaming like longtime friends and allies.

Heat bloomed on her cheeks as her father accepted the cloth and tucked it, most respectfully, beneath his own belt.

It is his blood!

Drawn to fool you, to aid him in his scheme to claim this isle and steal Donell’s lairdship.

She tried not to think about what he might yet do to her family. What could happen to her once they’d gone.

Was she the only soul who saw through him?

Apparently so, for her brothers had now joined them and, to a man, they gripped Roag’s shoulders briefly, and then gave him a rough but good-natured punch to the arm.

It was a greeting they saved for friends.

Like her father, and even Skog, they were siding with the man they believed her handfasted husband.

Andrew, her youngest brother, proved it by thrusting a horn of warmed mead into the lout’s hands. “She’s a fine lassie, sir,” he offered, looking pleased when Roag drained half the horn. As was custom, Roag returned it to Andrew for him to finish—an exchange of friendship and tribute.

“She’s the finest of the fine, I agree.” Roag slid his arm around her, pulling her close.

He turned to Gowan, her oldest and favorite brother. “I ken you’ll worry about her. Rest assured there is nae need. She will have much to keep her occupied, making this dank, auld tower a home.”

On his words, Skog pulled away from them, shuffling a few feet and then dropping onto his bony haunches to
stare at nothing. Gillian could hardly bear to watch, his confusion making her heart ache. She glanced at Roag, half expecting him to scoop Skog into his arms again, perhaps taking him back to her chamber. But he only watched the dog, his brows drawing together when Skog gave what could only be called a happy bark and began wagging his tail.

Gillian’s ill-ease lessened a bit.

She wasn’t ready to lose Skog, and if he stared at nothing, surely such confusion was tempered by his seeming gladness? Dogs on their last legs didn’t bark cheerily or wag their tails—leastways, she hoped that was so.

Roag also caught himself, his brief frown gone. He replaced it with a smooth smile as he set a hand on Gowan’s shoulder. “I will guard your sister with my life, as will my men.” His words rang true, his expression likewise. “She will aye be well-treated.”

“See you that she is.” Gowan stepped up to her, clutching her tight. When he released her, he kissed her cheek. “Remember what I said, lass. We will no’ forget you.”

Turning back to Roag, he nodded once. “You have a precious charge, MacDonnell. My family and I shall keep you to your word.”

“I ne’er break it.” Roag didn’t blink.