To Desire a Highlander (30 page)

“Are you not going to deny it? That you will sail away as soon as you can?” Her voice floated back to him as she nipped around a curve, disappearing behind the cliff’s jutting shoulder. “I suspect the lad wants you to stay. Perhaps he showed himself to the crew of the dragon ship? Mayhap”—she popped back into view, one hand holding her hair against the wind—“he even conjured the fog that rolled in that morn? Bogles have powers the living do not. Had the mist not rolled in, you might’ve chased thon ship.

“Could be…” She let her words trail off, a glimmer of speculation in her eyes. “I might have drowned—had you not returned when you did.”

Roag suspected she was right.

The thought chilled him to the marrow. He couldn’t have borne her death. He would indeed have felt responsible, and he’d have carried that weight on his shoulders for all his days.

“Then I am grateful to all the gods that I did,” he said, and he was.

But his admission was wasted.

She’d already turned and hastened back around the bend in the path.

Her words stayed with him, circling in his head…

I suspect the lad wants you to stay.

“And you?” Roag remained where he was, spoke the words into the wind.

It was probably best she’d not heard him. He also didn’t care about ghosts and what they wanted. He cared about Lady Gillian. He also wanted to stay here, much as that surprised him.

She was the one who burned to leave.

And the more he thought about it, the stranger her wish seemed. Much as she appeared to appreciate the wee isle and determined as she was not to return to her home, she had to have reasons for wanting off the isle so badly. That could only mean she was keeping something from him. A secret he determined to air, and as quickly as possible.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
he hall was crowded that night. Men in mail or leather milled about or packed the long tables, while some stood warming their hands at the hearth where a roaring driftwood fire filled the air with sea-scented blue-green smoke. Most of the men were newly returned from the landing beach below the tower, and, having secured the
Valkyrie
for the night, they all held horns of ale. They drank gladly as they spoke of what they’d seen—or hadn’t seen—on their circuitous journey throughout the isles.

Gillian sat at the high table, trying her best not to listen to the men’s talk of swords, spears, and axes; fire arrows, and the blood that would flow when they captured the blackguards attacking the crown’s fleet. After each such boast, they’d knock ale horns—or cups—and exchange thoughts on what should then be done to such miscreants.

“If they are English,” Conn of the Strong Arm, the
Valkyrie
’s Irish helmsman, waved a hand toward the hall’s main door and the dark night beyond, “they shall
have their bellies slit open and be tossed into the sea to feed the sharks and then the crabs. If they be Scots,” his tone hardened, as if such a betrayal were the most despicable sin in the world, “they shall twist from a rope in a place where all may stare and curse them. Then—”

“They, too, will feed the fish and crabs!” Big Hughie raised his voice above the crackle and roar of the fire. “King Robert will dispossess them of their lands, and their families and servants should be scattered—banished from the realm so that their tainted blood can befoul us no more.”

“Hear, hear!” a round of agreement rose from the others.

Throughout the hall, men rapped the tables with the blunt ends of their eating knives, while those standing stamped their feet or shook their swords in the scabbards.

The noise was deafening.

In truth, the racket was no different from the din in Castle Sway’s hall in times of unrest and trouble. She understood the need of men to swell their chests, make threats, and swagger. Such posturing was needed now and then, especially at times when a raid or foray hadn’t brought the desired results, such as an attempt to run down and capture an enemy ship.

The night’s bravura and ale guzzling would help the frustrated warriors to sleep on their too-thin pallets and the hall’s cold stone floor.

Gillian knew that well.

Hadn’t she been raised in a household of men?

She was also clever, more sharp-witted at times than most men gave her credit for.

So, being of a sound and lively mind…

What concerned her was that none of Roag’s men bothered to keep such talk from her listening ears.

That meant one of two things.

Roag could be planning to add her to the diet of hungry Hebridean crabs.

It was a possibility she couldn’t ignore, much as she doubted he’d stoop so low. Still, he had gone out of his way to emphasize the importance of his mission and how seriously he took his responsibility to his King. He’d made no secret that her presence was a thorn in his side, a complication he didn’t want or need.

She’d be amiss in her logic if she didn’t consider he might think to have done with her.

The other likelihood was equally unpalatable, but for a very different reason.

There was a chance he wouldn’t release her.

That he’d keep her at his side, even after he left the isle—perhaps as his servant or slave.

Why else would he allow his men to speak so freely in front of her?

They’d only do so if she wouldn’t prove a threat.

“My apologies, lass, that the hall is so loud this night.” Roag turned to her at the table—for they sat side by side—and touched his big hand to her cheek. “They will quiet soon.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You see how much ale they’re quaffing. Snores will soon replace their boasts.”

“I do not mind.”
I would hear why you let me listen.

“I forget that you have so many brothers.” He sat back, his face clearing as his words proved that, like so many men, he didn’t have any idea what truly bothered her.

He lowered his hand, looking at her in a way that made
a delicious warmth blossom inside her. It spread through her despite her worries, spilling from somewhere deep in her chest to flow clear to the tips of her fingers and down to her toes.

“You will have a large garrison at your home as well,” he went on, the casualness of his observation annoying her, once again revealing that he understood little of her. “I am no’ surprised you are so tolerant of warriors. Sway is known to be a castle of men.”

“So is yours.”
But only one of you interests me
.

“This isle is nae place for a woman, for sure no’ this excuse for a tower.”

“It is a good enough hall for warriors to tease, laugh, and boast together.” She reached for her ale horn, glad that it held warm honeyed mead. Before she took a sip, she gave him a smile, surprised how easily she could. “In days of strife and warfare, men who fight together become close. They love and trust each other as brothers, even if nary a drop of blood binds them. That I learned early, my lord,” she added, enjoying her mead. “Do not ever think your men’s nightly din disturbs me. In truth, I would be more worried if they were silent.”

As you so often turn quiet when you look at me and think I do not see. Your eyes then say things I’d hear from your tongue.

If my heart is listening correctly.

But never you mind, for I already know that it is dangerous to care for you. I do not wish to give my heart—or my body—to a man who would shred my soul as easily as a good wind rips apart the soft white heads of bog cotton.

“It is a poor hall that isn’t filled with manly ruckus,”
she said, speaking another truth—one that she didn’t mind putting voice to with her tongue.

“You are a remarkable woman, Lady Gillian.” He knocked his ale horn against hers, his dark eyes warming.

His lips even curved, his smile making his rugged face disturbingly appealing.

Sadly, the effect was ruined by his use of her formal title.

She wanted him to call her by name.

A mad wish if ever there was one—but for all that she knew how unwise it was to desire him, she couldn’t stop her pulse from leaping when he looked so deeply into her eyes as he was doing now. Worse, if she cared to admit it, her heart raced just seeing him stride across a room.

She admired his swagger.

She appreciated his confidence and liked how he treated his men. He was clearly a good leader and fair, qualities any chieftain’s daughter knew to respect and count highly. The compassion he showed her beloved pet revealed a different side of him. One that was, perhaps, even more dangerous because it proved he had a heart.

Not all men did, she knew that, too.

Certainly not for the neediest souls, such as the old and feeble, be they two-or four-legged.

Gillian took another sip of mead, now certain she was poised for doom.

She should not think about his good qualities. She shouldn’t remember his kisses or think about how his hands had felt on her when he held her to him. She did her best to forget the hard ridge of his manhood and how it then pressed against her, bespeaking his virility. The red-blooded lustiness that surely had more to do with his
just being a man than any desire he might feel for her personally.

He would have rescued any woman trapped by rocks and the tide. That he’d stormed down the cliff path and worked so frantically to free her, then taking such fine care of her as she recovered…

He was keeper here so long as he remained on Laddie’s Isle, honor-bound for the weal of all.

It didn’t mean he cared for her as a woman.

Still…

She couldn’t deny that everything about him appealed to her. Even here at his table, in full view of all, every time his arm or leg chanced to bump against hers, tingly warmth raced along her skin. Her pulse even quickened, a shiver of excitement inside her. Yet he made no secret that he had no interest in her—leastways beyond keeping her at his side so that she couldn’t ruin his work.

As if she would do aught to endanger the Scottish realm!

She loved her country.

And she wished he’d come to see and accept that in the weeks they’d been together. Striding about the high promontory much of this day and through till gloaming. Spending the evenings in his hall and, since her fall, sharing their nights in her little room, with poor old Skog witness to how little he desired her.

His initial, seemingly eager kisses had been a ploy.

However heated and thrilling they’d been for her, he hadn’t felt the same raging passion that she had, much as she’d resisted feeling anything at all.

She had, and still did.

The fates have mercy on her.

He’d only hoped to convince her father and family that he was indeed her newly returned betrothed. Donell MacDonnell come home to Laddie’s Isle, ready to claim her, and happy to do so, in the fullest sense possible.

It’d all been false.

As untrue as the bloodied “virtue cloth” he’d presented to her father with such aplomb.

Gillian frowned, carefully replacing her mead horn in its curved metal holder. She wished she hadn’t let him carry Skog abovestairs so early. If her dog were with her now, curled at her feet under the table, as was his wont, she’d have an excuse to slip from the hall. She could say she had to settle Skog for the night, and he’d have no choice but to let her go.

Even if he carried Skog to her room, courtesy would demand he leave her be if she said she wished to rest.

Alone.

But he’d seen to Skog as soon as they’d returned from the bluffs.

And that, too, kindled an appreciative warmth inside her that could easily ignite into something more.

She rubbed her brow, annoyingly aware that the tingly flutters she felt in certain womanly regions were a powerful indication that such heat needn’t be sparked at all. His strong, hard-muscled thigh rested against hers beneath the table and that simple contact proved her vulnerability, the heady attraction he was to her.

Her blood ran hot, and he’d fired it.

That meant it remained to her to douse the flames.

“I should like to go to my room now.” She turned to him, amazed she could speak so calmly. “It was a long day and I am tired.”

“As you wish, my lady.” He pushed back from the table, stepping away to let her rise. “I shall see you abovestairs.”

“You needn’t.” She nodded her good nights to his men, brushed down her skirts as she made to leave the dais. “It is only a short way.”

“That may be,” he argued, falling in beside her, taking her arm, “but you are nae longer sleeping in that room, my lady. I have moved you, and Skog, to the topmost chamber. You will—”

“But—”

He didn’t give her a chance to object. Turning toward her, he leaned close, bringing his mouth perilously close to hers. “You will be more comfortable there,” he said, his breath warming her skin. “And I shall have a greater view upon the sea. You ken now why that’s important.” He straightened, but not before he touched his knuckles to her face, smoothed them lightly down her cheek, across her lips. “The laird’s chamber will suit us well, you shall see.”

And she did, as he ushered her from the hall and up the winding turnpike stair.