Claimed by the Highlander (25 page)

*   *   *

Angus entered the stables, where Lachlan was grooming his horse. “Has there been any word about Murdoch MacEwen?” he curtly asked. “Damn you, Lachlan. Have any of our clansmen returned with news of him?”

Tossing the brush into a wooden bucket, Lachlan wiped his hands on a cloth and approached. “No word yet. Don’t you think I would’ve told you if there was?”

Angus pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. The air inside the stable was heavy with the scent of hay, leather, and horse. It was stifling and suffocating, and made him want to hit something. “
Och,
I can barely manage my impatience. I need to know what’s become of him, and I need to know very soon.”

Lachlan eyed him with concern and moved out of the stall. “Any particular reason why? Are you worried because of what Raonaid predicted? Do you think he’ll try to take Kinloch?”

“Until he’s found, he will always be a threat.”

Lachlan rested a hand on his shoulder. “We’re doing everything possible to assure a strong defense, Angus. But if you want, I can send out more men to act as spies.”

Angus considered it, then shook his head and walked to the door. “Nay. We need all our best men here. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”

He was still unsatisfied, however, as he strode out of the stables in search of Raonaid.

*   *   *

It was like an addiction—this need to know his future—and he could not help but fixate on the extraordinary fact that not one but
two
women inside the castle walls claimed to have the gift of sight, and he had bedded them both.

But which one was correct about his true destiny?

He found Raonaid in the kitchen, harassing the cook. He waved her over and led her into the stone passageway that led to the hall.

“What do you know of Gwendolen’s brother?” he asked.

He had already decided not to reveal Gwendolen’s dream to Raonaid, for it could be just that—a dream and nothing more. He didn’t want to influence Raonaid’s visions. He wanted to test her.

“I believe that she will choose him over her loyalty to you as her husband,” she said.

He took hold of her arm. “In what circumstances? Why does she not honor her pledge to me?”

He had already considered the possibility that his men had by now murdered her brother, and when Gwendolen learned of it, she would never forgive him for his treachery. She would despise him forever and wish terrible ills upon him.

He was no stranger to such outcomes, for he had once deceived his closest friend. This was all very familiar territory. Was he destined to always disappoint and drive away those who mattered most to him? He had lost the good opinion of his father—which he could never regain, for his father was dead. He had also lost Duncan—whom he had once believed to be the deceitful turncoat, but in the end, Duncan had been the one with greater wisdom and a higher sense of humanity.

“You’re obsessed with your guilt,” Raonaid said, reading him like a book. “You think you bring this on yourself, because of all the evils you’ve done.”

“But do I succeed in bringing it on myself?” he asked. “What is next to happen?”

He was determined not to openly provide her with information, for he didn’t need to hear what he already knew—that he was guilt-ridden. If she was a true oracle, she would tell him something more.

“You must let go of the past,” she said, “or you will not be able to focus on what matters.”

“And what is that?”

She spread her arms wide. “These walls of stone and mortar.”

His gaze traveled up the side of one wall, across the vaulted ceiling, then down the other, and then he recalled the words Lachlan had spoken on the day of the invasion:
But what is Kinloch, if not for its people?

Angus gazed into the cool blue depths of Raonaid’s eyes. “What good am I as a leader if my people despise me? What is the point in having all this power if everyone wants me dead?”

“At least you will have achieved something,” she replied. “You reclaimed this great Scottish stronghold that once belonged to your father, but was stolen from your clan. Your fighting skills are unmatched. You have been invincible in battle. Your father would be proud, Angus, and wasn’t that what you always wanted? Wasn’t that why you returned to Kinloch? To redeem yourself in his eyes?”

“But my father is dead, Raonaid, and he didn’t banish me because I failed in battle. There was never any question that I was good with a sword.” Angus looked away, toward the bailey. “My skill as a warrior meant nothing to him in the end. All he saw was my heartlessness, and that was why he sent me away. He was ashamed of me. I was his son, yet he could not even look at me.”

He realized suddenly how his perspective on life and the people surrounding him had changed since those cold, lonely months in the Hebrides. All he’d cared about then was his bitterness.

It was all Raonaid had cared for as well. It was what had brought them together. It was the one thing they shared—a basic contempt for the world.

Now, since his return to Kinloch and the unexpected intimacy of his marriage, all he wanted was peace. Prosperity for those who had placed themselves in his care.

And to never again disappoint those who trusted him.

*   *   *

That night, nothing could keep Angus from Gwendolen’s bed. He’d spent the entire day going over all the possible directions his life could take from this day forward—everything from his own death to the loss of his wife’s affections because he had ordered the death of her brother.

He had always been very adept at disregarding his emotions. He had never been one for empathy or compassion. He did what was necessary to survive, without pause or regret. He killed men in battle. He lived for duty and patriotism alone.

But tonight, he felt uncertain. He had sent a basket of roses to Gwendolen’s room when she was still dressing for dinner, and now, after the meal, he was escorting her back to her chamber, not entirely sure where they stood. Had she seen his treachery in her dreams? Did she know that he was not worthy of her goodness?

When they entered her bedchamber, he took the liberty of dismissing her maid, for he wanted to assist her himself. He removed each article of clothing, piece by piece, and all the while, his hands shook with both arousal and uneasiness.

A short time later they slid beneath the heavy covers, where he laid a trail of kisses down her soft, quivering belly and wondered how it was possible that he could feel such apprehension at a time like this, when his body was aroused and he was passionately in the mood for sex. He had come here to make love to his wife and lose himself in her sweet, honeyed depths, but perhaps what he really needed to do was distract himself from everything else. For their future together was uncertain at best.

Would she betray him? he wondered, as he kissed her soft shoulders and relished the sweet sounds of her breathless moans.

Or would he simply disappoint her and lose her affections forever because of the thoughtless command he had given to Lachlan a month ago?

After a generous session of foreplay, he entered her with great sensitivity, and watched her expressions in the dim, flickering candlelight. She thrust her hips forward to meet each of his deep penetrations, and their bodies moved together in a physical harmony he had never imagined possible. It was magic, and he wanted it. Needed it. He would die for it.

He drove into her vigorously, again and again, and grew quite certain that the irresistible joy he was feeling was nothing but a house of cards built on a shaky table, and soon that house would collapse.

He held his climax at bay for as long as possible, and when it came, it was cataclysmic; hers was savage and intense. He felt the power of their passion in the sharp sting of her fingernails digging into his back.

“I love you,”
she whispered, and he sucked in a breath of surprise.

“I love you, too.”

God in heaven …

He had never spoken those words before, but they spilled out before he had a chance to stop and think.

Something inside him shifted. Should he have said it? Was it true? Did he even understand such an emotion? He felt as if he did, but he was still unsure.

Later, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, quiet and restful, stretched out on the bed, basking in the warmth from the fire and the heavy scent of roses.

He had not expected to reach such a state of repose. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Or surrender. Or something else. Whatever it was, he accepted it. He did not rise to go to the chapel that night. He slept soundly for hours and hours, and dreamed of purple heather in the glen.

So it was with a jolt of shock that he woke to a noisy rapping at the door. He sat up and managed to slide out of bed without waking Gwendolen. He wrapped his tartan around him, and crossed the room to answer it.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” Lachlan whispered, “but there is news of Murdoch MacEwen, and I thought you’d want to know straightaway.”

Angus stepped into the chilly, torchlit corridor and closed the door behind him. “What is it?”

“One of our spies has returned from Paris. You ought to come now and hear what he has to say.”

Angus dropped his gaze to the floor, and wondered if he had made a terrible mistake in not visiting the chapel that night to light a candle and say a prayer, because the time seemed rather appropriate for God to come and collect for past sins.

Angus feared the worst would happen—that he was about to lose everything, as he always had before.

Chapter Twenty-two

The next morning, Angus waited impatiently in the solar for Gwendolen and her mother to arrive, and when they walked in, he rose from his chair.

“You sent for us?” Gwendolen glanced at Angus, then at Lachlan, and a third MacDonald clansman she could not have recognized, for he had left the castle the day after the invasion.

Angus gestured to two chairs brought in especially for their meeting. “Please take a seat.”

Lachlan remained standing by the bank of leaded windows, and the clansman who went by the name of Gerard MacDonald stood beside Angus, waiting to speak.

Angus turned to Onora. “I have news of your son, madam.”

He noticed that Gwendolen clasped her hands together on her lap, as if to brace herself. Onora, however, looked hopeful. She did not know of Gwendolen’s dreams. Gwendolen had shared her secret prophecies with no one but him.

“There is news?” Onora smiled cautiously. “Please, Angus—I beseech you to disclose it without delay. Murdoch has been gone too long. Will he come home to us?”

Angus met Gwendolen’s eyes. They began to fill with wetness; her knuckles turned white on her lap.

“I am deeply sorry, madam,” he said to Onora. “Your son will not be returning. He died, weeks ago, in France.”

Gwendolen bowed her head.

Angus glanced over his shoulder at Lachlan, who moved to kneel before Onora. He took her hands in his.

Her voice shook. “It cannot be true! How do you know this?”

Lachlan began to explain. “After we invaded Kinloch and realized that we had not fought your son, we needed to establish his whereabouts and ensure that he would not return to seek vengeance. I sent men to search for him, and this man…” He gestured toward Gerard who stood behind him. “This man found Murdoch in Paris and arranged to speak with him.”

Onora stood and approached Gerard. “You saw my son? You spoke with him?”

“Aye, madam, but he was not well. I was permitted to visit his sickbed, and he asked me to tell you that he was sorry for deserting you, and that if he could turn back the hands of time, he would never have left his beloved Scotland. He would’ve stayed to defend you against your invaders, and he wished he could’ve died here, rather than be buried so far from home.”

Tears filled Onora’s eyes. “Did he know who you were? Did he know what happened here?”

“Aye. I explained everything to him.”

She gestured with desperation to Gwendolen. “Did you tell my son that his sister was forced to marry the conquering chief?”

Gerard fumbled with his tartan, growing uncomfortable with the emotional nature of Onora’s questioning. “Aye, I told him that, too. And I’ll not lie to you, madam. He was concerned for her safety.”

Gwendolen quickly stood. “Of course he would be concerned. He was my brother, and he knew how I valued my virtue. He would not have wanted to leave this world believing that I’d been forced into wedlock, or beaten or subjugated. He cared for me very much.” She addressed Gerard directly. “Did you tell him that I was agreeable to the match? Because I cannot bear to think that he died believing I was unhappy. If I could have been there, I would have told him that all was well. That the MacEwens are in good hands.”

There it was again, Angus thought. That expression she tossed around so freely—that “all was well.”

Was it? Now that her brother was dead, and Angus was not responsible for his passing, would everything be well? Would this mean she would never betray him as Raonaid predicted? And would Angus finally be able to stop looking over his shoulder at every turn?