Claimed by the Highlander (17 page)

On her way to the solar one afternoon, Onora rounded a corner in one of the vaulted passageways and collided unexpectedly with Lachlan MacDonald.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, taking hold of his tartan and pulling him into the shadows of an alcove. He followed her up against the wall and rested an arm over her head.

“Have you been following me, Mrs. MacEwen?” he asked. His eyes were playful, his voice seductive, and she quivered with pent-up desire.

Heaven help her, she had not yet recovered from her conversation with him the night before, when he crossed the Great Hall, whispered hotly into her ear, and teased her with sweet flatteries. He was a captivating man—the kind who knew just how to charm a woman onto her back in two minutes flat. Onora would be more than happy to volunteer to become his next conquest, even though she was ten years older and a woman of vast experience and reason.

“Certainly not, sir,” she replied, rubbing a finger down the center of his chest and wishing she could do so much more. “Perhaps you are the one who is following me.”

A glimmer of interest lighted his eyes. “And what if I was? Would you call the castle guards and have me reprimanded?”

She shook her head at the outrageousness of it all, for she had never been one to let any man affect her this way. It was usually the other way around. Her lovers often became obsessed with her, and perhaps, because of that, she had grown overconfident in recent years.

But Lachlan MacDonald was not like other men. He was extraordinary—darkly handsome and divinely muscled—and his devastating smile promised sexual fulfillment with a teasing confidence that drove her mad with longing.

Men like him ought to be outlawed, she thought petulantly, as she fiddled with the tartan that was draped over his shoulder—for they committed the worst kind of offense. They turned strong women like her into pathetic, pining fools.

“Will you come to my chamber later tonight?” she asked, frustrated that she had to ask, when he should be the one making the proposition.

He glanced up and down the passageway, making sure there was no one about, then gave her a brilliant smile and spoke teasingly. “Tsk-tsk, Onora. You are, without a doubt, a stunning and desirable woman, but we are practically related.”

“Not by blood,” she replied, with a spark of mischief in her eyes.

He ran a finger from the bottom of her ear, along the line of her jaw to her chin, and focused on her lips. “Nevertheless, you shouldn’t tempt a man so. It’s terribly cruel. You’ll break his heart.”

Her body burned hotly with need. How was it possible that he could turn a rejection into the most thrilling, intoxicating form of flattery? The man was too charming for words.

“But Lachlan, I can promise you a night of wicked pleasures, and make all your fantasies come true. It’s the least I can do, to reward you for your superb efforts as our new Laird of War.”

He smiled again. “Your offer is very tempting, madam. You know exactly how to make a man suffer.” Then he backed away with a seductive glimmer in his eye and left her standing there breathless, almost faint with desire. “I’ll see you later in the hall,” he said casually over his shoulder, as he continued down the passageway.

“Perhaps,” she called after him. “Though I cannot guarantee I’ll be there early, for I’ll be enjoying a hot bath, while rubbing sweet-smelling perfumes over my naked body … thinking of you, of course.”

He disappeared around the corner.

Onora continued in the other direction, then stopped suddenly and sank onto a bench against the wall. Frustrated with herself, she squeezed her hair in both fists and let out a near feral growl.

Flirting with Lachlan MacDonald was supposed to be about power and strategy, not fluttering hearts and girlish crushes. If she was going to accomplish anything here, she would have to work harder to control her impulses, for this was a volatile situation that required a cool head and a steady hand. She could not afford to become infatuated.

She stood up, smoothed out her skirts, and hurried to the stairs.

*   *   *

That evening, after the music and dancing had begun, Angus lounged back against a stone column in the Great Hall. He used his knife to cut into an apple, one slow slice at a time, and placed each juicy sliver into his mouth on the edge of the blade.

He watched his wife across the crowded room, dancing a reel with other members of both clans. The music was lively, the spirit of the room infectious with laughter and merriment, but it was all he could do to watch Gwendolen with narrowed, ravenous eyes while he absentmindedly ate his apple.

A young MacEwen lad with red hair and bony legs encouraged her to dance a second time. It put Angus in a foul mood. The mere idea of any man touching her or bringing a smile to her face sent his thoughts into a storm of possessive hunger.

He finished the apple, slipped his knife into his boot, and strode with purpose to the center of the hall, where she was still dancing the reel. All it took was one look, and her smile transformed into a shared sexual awareness that burned in her eyes. When the dance ended, she placed her hand in his, and he led her out of the hall toward the stairs to her bedchamber in the East Tower.

He had never known such desire could exist—and for the first time, he didn’t care if he was distracted by it. All he wanted to think about was kissing his wife and burying himself in her soft, heated depths.

Everything else, he could lay aside until morning.

*   *   *

Onora watched Angus stalk through the crowd toward Gwendolen.

It was lost on no one that the great MacDonald chief had become infatuated with his wife and was growing more obsessed with her each day. He looked at her like she was something delicious to eat, and he was a starving man.

Gwendolen responded in kind. They were two young lovers overcome by fresh passions, which was an astounding turn of events, to be sure—for on that first day, Gwendolen had loathed their conqueror with such intensity, she’d wanted to see him hanged.

Onora’s gaze traveled across the hall to Lachlan, who was taking a young MacEwen clanswoman onto the floor.

Though one could hardly call her a woman. What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She was slender and blond and looked as stupid as a bag of hammers, but Onora nevertheless felt a harsh pang of jealousy in the pit of her stomach.

Was he attracted to such youthful innocence? she wondered irritably. Would he set his sights on seducing that trembling young lass tonight, instead of coming to her bedchamber for a more advanced and sophisticated program of activities?

“What has you lookin’ so melancholy, Onora?”

Startled by the interruption, she turned toward Gordon MacEwen, the castle steward. His belly was round, his head bald, and there was a film of greasy perspiration on his nose.

She had taken this man to her bed many times when he was master of Kinloch in all but name. But now, after flirting with a brawny champion like Lachlan MacDonald, she felt rather disgusted by Gordon.

“Nothing of any permanent importance,” she replied.

She sipped her wine and regarded him congenially over the rim of her glass, for she would never be so foolish as to allow her passions to get the better of her. She had to keep all options open. She might find herself in need of Gordon’s assistance in the future.

“I see that your daughter has found some contentment in her marriage,” he said.

“Indeed.”

“No doubt, she has been greatly conflicted by it,” he added. “It’s been such a short time since her father’s passing. She’s barely had time to grieve. And her brother … Well. He will certainly regret his absence when he learns of her personal sacrifice to Angus the Lion.”

Onora pondered her daughter’s happiness over the past few weeks and decided it was not turning out to be such a terrible sacrifice after all. The passion Gwendolen felt for her husband was genuine, and no political differences of opinion could change it. She was falling in love with the great Highland Lion, and despite her own personal loyalties, Onora was happy for her.

“I suppose they won’t return to the hall tonight,” Gordon remarked.

“Probably not.” Onora felt a hand on her shoulder just then, and found herself gazing up at Lachlan’s dark and handsome eyes.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“Not at all.” She handed her glass to Gordon, so that Lachlan could lead her onto the floor.

A thrill of anticipation shimmied up her spine.

“He’s too old for you,” Lachlan said with a smile, as they began to dance.

“He’s exactly my own age,” Onora replied. “If anyone is too old for anyone, I am the one who is far too worldly for you.”

“But I, too, am worldly,” he told her, leaning close. “I am an experienced man of war who has seen things most virtuous young lassies like yourself couldn’t even begin to imagine.”

“
‘
Virtuous young lassie’?”
Onora laughed out loud. “Are you drunk?”

“Does it matter?”

She smiled at him appreciatively, while an emotion she did not welcome began to grow inside her.

It was a feeling of affection, she supposed.

Or perhaps desperation.

Either way, it worried her.

*   *   *

“First you must learn how to select a sword,” Angus said, as he unsheathed his claymore and held it out, point up, for Gwendolen to admire.

She had convinced him to teach her something about swordsmanship by telling him she would not remove her gown until he satisfied some of her curiosities.

“The basket-hilted broadsword is the best weapon for battle,” he told her, “but even the mightiest blade is useless in the hands of a man—or woman—who is not calm or lacks judgment on the field.”

“May I hold it?” she asked.

“Aye.” He moved to stand behind her, and she reveled in the sensation of his body brushing up against hers. “Take it in your right hand like this. That’s it. Now left foot forward.”

She let him guide her into the proper stance.

“If I had my shield,” he said, “I’d show you how to hold that, too, but since I don’t, we’ll just have to use our imaginations.” He closed his hand around her left fist and lifted her arm. “You would hold it right here, like this, close to your face at an angle, or lower, to protect your sword arm, depending on what your opponent was doing. If you were charging into a bayonet line, you’d keep it low to guard your belly.”

“Good Lord.” She turned her head slightly to look up at him. “How in the world would you charge a bayonet line and live to tell about it?”

He moved around to face her again, and the instant he let go of her sword arm, the heavy point dropped to the floor.

He sat on the footboard of the bed, curling his big hands around it. “It’s a sophisticated technique, lass. Only the strongest, most able of men can manage it.”

She was both amused and aroused by his confidence. “And I suppose
you
fall into that category?”

“Aye. I’m the best there is.”

“Is that a fact?” She leaned the sword against the wall by the door and smiled at him cheekily. “Why don’t you describe to me the details of your supreme talents? I long to know them.”

He inclined his head at her, then moved into position to demonstrate. “It goes something like this. You approach the bayonet line at a run, then dip low with the left leg, thrust the bayonet upward with your shield, then move ahead with your other foot, strike the soldier to the right with your sword, while you dirk the front-ranked man in the chest.”

All her muscles went weak as he showed her the complex maneuver.

“That’s it?” she replied, however, folding her arms at her chest. “Sounds simple enough.”

In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She shrieked with laughter and sighed when he came down upon her, kissing her deeply on the mouth.

“If you’re not impressed by that,” he said in a husky voice, “I will impress you some other way.”

“I have no doubt that you will.”

He tossed her skirts up and settled into a very different sort of charge that displayed an equally supreme set of skills.

For hours they made love without inhibitions, and each stroke of a finger, each kiss, each whisper of endearment, lifted their passions to new heights.

Gwendolen fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and satisfied. But not even the blissful haze of her dreams could diminish the terror she experienced when she woke up to an explosion of feathers beside her head, as a steel blade came slashing through the air and cut deep into Angus’s pillow.

Chapter Fourteen

Instantly awake, Angus rolled off the bed just in time to avoid the strike. He leaped to his feet and strained to see through the darkness as the intruder sliced through his pillow and nearly took Gwendolen’s head off in the process.

The prospect of her death hit him like a punch in the gut. It was followed by a wild fury of rage—and a debilitating dread that was completely unfamiliar to him, for he had never experienced a fear like this in any previous hand-to-hand combat. But he was not just thinking of himself tonight. There was another to protect.