Claimed by the Highlander (10 page)

She was a complete and utter coward.

His blue eyes focused on her lips, then he pressed the dull edge of the blade up under her chin. Terror pulsed through her veins as she faced his newly awakened wrath, felt the tight grip of his hand on her shoulder. His body was heavy, pressing her into the bed. After a long, agonizing moment, he leaned over her and set the knife on the bedside table.

“Don’t turn yourself into a killer,” he said, “unless it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, think carefully about the damage to your soul, and whether or not it’s worth an eternity in hell.”

She tried to sit up, but he pinned her arms over her head. “Was it worth it for you? All the killing you did?”

“My soul was damaged early in life, lass, so I had little to lose. Now give me your mouth. I didn’t come here to talk about killing.”

He let go of her wrists and slid his hands under her behind, pressing his hips tightly to hers. The sweeping physical sensation made her body arch and burn. Her mind careened with fear. Her limbs went weak and tingly as his hands stroked the side of her hip, and his own hips thrust against her in a steady, potent rhythm.

Then he kissed her. Her mouth opened instinctively, and it was hot and wet and searing.

He had promised he would not rob her of her virginity, yet this was surely just as depraved. She could feel her innocence slipping away, sliding into a strange world of need. She had been more than capable of resisting such feelings earlier in the day, but now all she felt was relief over the fact that she had not killed him. Which made no sense. Because she hated him—
she hated him
—and she did not want this.

But what was it about the darkness that made touching him feel like a hallucination? She was slowly pulling away from her rage, and had to work hard to remember that he was her enemy. All she felt now was a heady desire for his touch, and it was somehow delicious. He was a virile man with greedy hands and cunning lips, and he possessed the ability to turn her body to liquid fire.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said in a breathless whisper, fighting to subdue the throbbing rush of heat that was traveling from her belly to her thighs. “You can’t make love to me. You promised. Yet that seems to be what you are doing.”

“I can make love to you without rupturing your maidenhead, lass, and you, in turn, can pleasure me tonight, and still be a virgin in the morning.”

“How?”

He drew back slightly. “You
are
an innocent, aren’t you?”

She tried to push him away, but her arms had turned to limp rags. His lips found hers again, and the damp thrust of his tongue plunging in and out of her mouth made her quiver inwardly and yearn for something more, when she did not want to feel any such thing. If only she was built of steel, like he was.

He spread his fingers down the side of her leg and tugged at her shift, lifting it up over her trembling thigh.

“Please don’t,” she said, grabbing hold of it and yanking it back down to remain as a barrier between them, even while she was tempted by the danger and fear of the unknown.

Surprisingly, he removed his hand from her leg and cupped the back of her head instead, kissing her more deeply, while thrusting his strong body into hers.

She had not known how restless a person could become in such a situation, and found herself responding to every touch, every kiss, each incredible, erotic sensation.

“Ah,” he sighed. “That’s it, lass. Do you know how appealing you are?”

“You need not flatter me,” she said harshly. “I am your prisoner. You have control over me. I must therefore pleasure you, regardless of my own objections.”

His head drew back again, and he looked at her in the candlelight. “But you are warming to me. I can feel it in your kiss, hear it in your voice.”

“You hear only what you want to hear, for I am
not
warming to you, Angus. I assure you.”

She was surprised by the hatred she managed to convey in those words, even while she was melting with desire and a strange bliss she had never known to exist.

But she was even more surprised by the severity of his reaction. He frowned at her with pointed anger and sat back on his haunches.

She wasn’t sure if the anger was directed at her, or at himself.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, more fearful now than she had been a moment ago when he was attempting to slide his hand up her leg.

He slid off the bed. “I’ve lost interest in this.”

Shocked, and ridiculously humiliated by his sudden withdrawal, she sat forward. “You’re leaving?”

“Aye. I have things to do.”

“In the middle of the night?”

He offered no explanation as he strode to the door, walked out, and swung it shut behind him. The flames on the candelabra flickered wildly in the draughts from the corridor, then everything went still.

Gwendolen flopped down on the bed and exhaled with relief, for she was still in possession of her virtue and had not disgraced herself by surrendering in a delirious fever to the Lion’s seductions, when there was so much more to this than mere physical desire.

She struggled to regain her sanity, knowing that she must keep her head and remember where her loyalties lay. She had to resist the wanton urge to give him free rein over her body, for her brother might soon return, and when he did, she must be ready to reclaim her freedom, and the independence of her clan.

She could not succumb to this temptation.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, Gwendolen woke to bright sunshine beaming in through her window. It was no surprise that she had slept late, for she’d been awake half the night recovering from Angus’s presence in her bed, and all the different ways he had touched her, and the shock of how pliant she’d become in his arms. It was quite a stroke of luck that he had left the room when he did, otherwise she might very well be an experienced woman this morning.

Stretching her arms over her head, she sat up and reached for her robe, then hurried to her dressing room, for there was something important she had to do that morning, before the women of the kitchen left for the village market.

She was going to attempt to send word to Fort William, the nearest English garrison, to inform them of yesterday’s attack. The governor at the fort was obligated to report all Jacobite activities to the Crown, and surely he would wish to know that the son of a Jacobite rebel had just taken over a castle of Hanoverians and declared himself chief. It was information the governor would value, and perhaps he would recognize the threat to England and send assistance.

She considered going to Gordon MacEwen, the castle steward, to share her plan with him, but decided against it, for she was not sure who could be trusted. He had been manipulated by her mother in recent weeks, so it was obvious that he was easily seduced. And God only knew how long that affair had been going on. Her mother was no saint.

Gwendolen washed up and donned a striped skirt with a blue bodice, and quickly braided her hair. She hurried down the curved stone staircase and made her way through the vaulted passageways to the kitchen, where the smell of bread baking in the ovens caused her mouth to water.

“Good morning, Miss MacEwen.”

She whirled around, realizing how very taut her nerves had become. “Mary. You surprised me. Good morning to you, too. You’re just the person I was looking for. Are you going to the village market this morning?”

“Aye. Last night’s feast drained us dry. We’re in need of everything.” She gave a sigh of annoyance. “I’ll have to take two wagons, and I may make a few of those hungry MacDonald clansmen get in the harness instead of the mules, because they’re the ones who cleaned us out, and they certainly have full bellies this morning.”

“That’s a perfect idea.”

Gwendolen glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then took Mary by the hand and led her into a dark corner of the kitchen, out of sight. “Can you do something for me?”

“I’ll do anything for you, Miss MacEwen. You know that.”

“Aye. It’s why I came to you.” Gwendolen reached into her stays and pulled out a sealed letter. “Can you see that this is delivered to Marcus MacEwen, the winemaker, and tell him to give it to his brother, John. They’ll know what to do with it.” She slipped the note into Mary’s hand.

“I cannot read, lassie, so you know I won’t pry into your personal affairs, but can you tell me what it’s about?”

“No, Mary, it’s best if you do not know. The only thing you must do is keep it secret and make sure no one sees you handing it over, and make sure it’s well hidden when you leave the castle, in case you are searched.”

Mary stuffed it into the depths of her generous bosom and patted down her frizzy hair. “You can trust me to do your bidding, Miss MacEwen. The winemaker and I go way back. He’ll be more than happy to accept the message. I’ll lead him behind a haystack and take a few naughty thrills for myself while he searches my underthings.”

Gwendolen touched Mary’s arm. “You are a very good friend. I appreciate your sacrifice, but please be careful.”

She returned to the busy kitchen, where the others were kneading balls of dough on worktables. “May I have some breakfast? I am famished.”

Mary directed her to the tray of oatcakes, fresh out of the oven, and a bowl of fresh cream.

A short time later, Gwendolen was passing through the Great Hall on her way to her mother’s chamber, when she heard her name called out from the head table.

Angus’s deep voice echoed off the ceiling timbers, stopping her in her tracks. She shut her eyes, took a breath, then turned around to face him. He was seated at the table alone, eating his breakfast.

“Here I sit,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “in my father’s chair again.” He leaned back casually. “And I have no one to talk to but that little bird overhead.”

His eyes lifted, and he gestured toward the swallow, perched on a beam over the door.

Gwendolen looked up. “She’s still here. After yesterday, I thought we might never see her again. Clearly she is unaware of her peril.”

He inclined his head. “Now why would you say such a hurtful thing, lass? Do you think I am such a monster, that I would prey on a small, defenseless creature such as that?”

“You have preyed on my entire clan, and me as well. In the dead of night, may I remind you?”

“Your clan is hardly small,” he replied. “And
you
are hardly defenseless—neither by day, or night. Do you forget the knife you held at my throat?” His shrewd eyes raked over her from head to foot, then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, tossed it lightly onto the table, and stood.

Gwendolen’s stomach clenched tight as he hopped down from the dais and approached her. She couldn’t keep from backing away from him, which set a certain tone for their encounter. He was the predator, she the nervous prey.

In a belated attempt to assert herself, she halted on the spot and straightened her posture.

“Tell me, lass,” he said, as he reached her with brooding curiosity. “What are you up to this morning? You look rather …
sly.
”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Sly? What is that supposed to mean? I have no idea what you are referring to.”

He cupped her chin in a big hand, lifted her face slightly to examine it from all angles. “Now you’re blushing. Your cheeks are turning red.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t like your hands on me.”

He pondered that. “Nay, that’s not it.”

“It most certainly is!”

Letting go of her chin, he leaned his golden head closer. She felt his hot, moist breath on her cheek. “I think you like my hands on you very much, and that’s what has you so desperate to dash out of this hall right now, praying that you’ll be rescued before the grand thrill of our wedding night.”

“That’s not true,” she said.

She sensed the tiniest hint of a grin on his face and turned her head quickly to look at him, wishing she could catch it, but it was too late. He stepped back, looking dangerous again.

“I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said.

“Good Lord, for what?” She couldn’t begin to imagine.

“For not butchering me last night. Part of me wanted you to, and I might have let you, if you’d put more effort into it.”

She studied his pale blue eyes. “Why would you want that? You just achieved a great victory and reclaimed your father’s castle. One would think you’d have reason to celebrate.”

“One would think so … if I was a happy sort of man.” He turned from her and headed for the door.

“Wait!”

He paused and faced her. She wanted to ask him why he was unhappy, but something about that question seemed too personal, too caring, and she did not wish to care for him.

“Nothing,” she said.

He stared at her for a tense moment that seemed to go on forever, then returned to her, as if he had peered into her soul and heard every private thought and emotion, and wanted to interrogate her further about why she looked so
sly
.