Claimed by the Highlander (5 page)

“Agreed,” he replied.

Surprised by the swiftness and ease with which he accepted her first request, she nevertheless proceeded with caution. “I petition also that my mother will be treated with the appropriate respect due to her, as the widow of a past Laird of Kinloch. She will keep her apartments and jewels, and she will sit at our table.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Anything else?”

She swallowed thickly. “All members of the MacEwen clan will have rights equal to the MacDonalds in all matters.”

He thought about that one for a moment. “If they pledge their allegiance to me tonight, I give you my word that they will have equal rights.”

She realized suddenly that she was perspiring, and wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead.

“Lastly, in regard to our marital union…” All at once, her belly swarmed with butterflies, and she had to swallow hard to keep her voice steady. “I request that you do not claim your husbandly rights until our wedding night.”

That one, oddly enough, was the only application that gave him pause—and soon after, his eyes smoldered with rising sexuality. “Are you a virgin, lass?”

“Of course,” she replied incredulously.

He studied her expression, then his gaze dipped lower. Time seemed to stand still as he lifted a hand and traced a slow finger along the line of her jaw, down the center of her throat to the valley of her cleavage, then along the breadth of her neckline from shoulder to shoulder, as if he were drawing a smile with his rough, callused fingertip.

Gwendolen shivered, for no man had ever touched her like that before, and this man was far more intimidating than most. He slanted a seductive glance at her, and all her bravado from moments ago poured out of her like water. Her skin seemed to burn with fever under his fingertip, and it made her head swim in churning circles.

She felt suddenly inept when it came to negotiating for anything. Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps she should simply be thanking him.

“That’s a considerable demand, lass. I’d venture to call it impudent, and I’ve no interest in wedding a woman who doesn’t know her place.”

“And what is my place, exactly?”

“Your place will be in my bed. Pleasing me.”

She was having a devil of a time getting air in and out of her lungs. “I understand,” she said shakily, “that if I am to be your wife, it will be my duty to provide you with an heir. I only ask that I have time to prepare myself for that …
obligation
.”

His eyes narrowed with dark, sensual resolve. “What’s the point in putting off the inevitable? One way or another, you’ll be on your back, and I’ll be having my way with you. You might even find you enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it?” she scoffed. “I think not.”

His gaze lingered on her lips, and her insides seemed to melt into a big warm puddle of sensation as he cupped the side of her face in his hand and let his fingers play in the wisps of hair over her ear. “Since we’re negotiating the terms for your total and complete surrender to me,” he said, “I’ll agree to your blushing request on two conditions.”

“I am listening.” She struggled to banish the color from her cheeks.

“I’ll leave your sweet, luscious maidenhead intact, as long as you agree to be amiable toward me between now and then. Never again will you defy me in front of the clans like you did this morning, nor will you resist or dispute my authority over Kinloch. You will support my rule, both publicly and privately.”

Could she agree to that? she wondered uneasily.

Yes. She would agree to anything, if it meant he would not touch her like this, or attempt to take her this very night. And perhaps, before that moment arrived, if she was blessed with good fortune or mercy from above, her brother would arrive and save her from that fate.

“Fine. What is the second condition?” She worked hard to ignore the fact that his thumb was now gently brushing back and forth across her chin.

“When your brother returns like a hero on his white steed”—he said, as if he had read her mind—“which I am certain he will, your allegiance will be with me, your husband, and you will not betray that vow.”

“But what will become of my brother? This castle is his birthright, too. You cannot simply expect him to—”

A flash of anger burned in the Lion’s eyes. “It is not his birthright. It is mine. But your brother will have a choice. He can pledge an oath to me, and with that oath, he will be given land and a position of rank and stature. If he refuses, he will be free to leave.”

She paused, for she did not believe it. “Would you promise me—would you give me your word of honor as a Scotsman—that you will not kill him?”

Angus stepped back. “Nay. For if he raises his sword against me, or any other MacDonald, I will slice him in half without hesitation.”

Gwendolen looked down at the floor. She did not doubt his word in that regard, and for the first time, a true feeling of defeat swept through her. He was a powerful foe, and she was out of her depth.

“I will agree to those terms,” she said, consoling herself with the fact that she had at least attained some compensation for her people. And the Lion would not attempt to bed her that night. Perhaps, with any luck, her brother would arrive soon with an army of redcoats, and drag this Jacobite rebel off to the gallows for treason. She would try to get word to Murdoch about the urgency of their predicament, and cling to the hope that even after the forfeiture of her innocence, the castle could still be reclaimed. All hope was not lost.

It would be her sacrifice, she supposed. Her virtue in exchange for the eventual freedom of her clan.

Gwendolen looked up and found herself gazing into the unyielding blue depths of his eyes.

“Are we done now?” he asked. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Aye.” But she felt completely unraveled.

“Then seal the agreement. Prove to me that your word is true.”

“How?”

The tone of his voice changed in that moment. He spoke in a low, husky whisper. “Pledge it with a kiss.”

Before she had a chance to object, he pressed his mouth to hers, and the floor seemed to shift under her feet. She had never been kissed before, not once in her life. She had lived a virtuous existence, determined to evolve into a woman very different from her mother, who used sex as an instrument of power over men.

But this was not the same as that. Not at all. Gwendolen had no power here. She was completely beguiled and could do nothing but bend and soften to the strength of his will.

He slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her close, and her head tilted back under the pressure of the kiss—so urgent and probing, it sent her body reeling. All at once, this artless, naïve pledge of hers felt like a promise of profound physicality and commitment. He was demanding her complete surrender and capitulation, here in this room, by the joining of their mouths and bodies, and she had no idea what to do, but to respond.

He tipped his head to the side and cupped the back of her neck with his hand, parting her lips and sliding his tongue inside to mingle damply with hers. The kiss drew out an involuntary whimper of submission.

Then—just as she was becoming acquainted with the sensation of their lips and tongues colliding gently—he drew back from the kiss and ran a finger across her flushed cheek.

“I believe you
will
enjoy it, lass,” he said in a gruff voice, “when the time comes.”

Gwendolen’s legs nearly buckled beneath her. “I most certainly will not.”

He turned away and started toward the bailey.

“Wait!” she said.

He stopped, but did not turn.

“There is one more thing.” Gwendolen strode forward tensely.

He turned his head to the side.

“I want my family’s heraldry to remain here in the hall, beside yours.”

For the longest time, he stood with his back to her, refusing to speak. A knot of uncertainty tangled up inside her stomach.

At last, he turned. “You were doing so well, lass. Why did you have to spoil it?”

“Spoil what? I am only asking for what is rightfully ours. My father was granted possession of this castle by the King of Great Britain, and our name cannot simply be erased from its walls.”

Another warrior entered the hall. He, too, was imposing like Angus, but his hair was black as night, his eyes dark as sin. He stood just inside the door.

Angus spoke over his shoulder. “Lachlan, come here and escort my future bride to my bedchamber. She needs to be taught a lesson or two about the rules of war and the meaning of surrender. Lock her in and put a guard at the door.”

“What?”
Gwendolen’s heart began to pitch and roll. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“We did, and I confess, I enjoyed the negotiations. But you shouldn’t have stepped over the line, lass. I told you, I have no interest in wedding a woman who does not know her place. It’s time you learned yours and understood the limits of my tolerance.” He frowned at her. “I am not a kind man.”

“I didn’t step over any line. I only asked for one more thing.”

“The negotiations were finished,” he said. “That’s the end of it. Now go with Lachlan, and wait for me in my bed.”

The other warrior strode across the hall and took hold of her arm. “Don’t fight it, lass,” he said. “You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

“How can it possibly get any worse than this?” she asked.

He chuckled softly. “You don’t know Angus.”

Chapter Three

The instant the door slammed shut behind Gwendolen and the key turned in the lock, she squeezed her eyes shut. She had to fight against the overwhelming urge to scream her lungs out and pound her fists up against the door. She felt desperate enough to do it, but alas, she had never been the type of woman who succumbed to temper tantrums. They accomplished nothing.

Besides, Angus the Lion hardly struck her as the sort of man who would be moved by such childish displays. In fact, she doubted he would be moved by much of anything, for his heart seemed forged of steel. There was nothing gentle about him, nothing whatsoever. She had not recognized a single breath of tenderness or compassion in his character. He had treated her like an object. He expected her to fear and obey him, and he made it clear that if she did not, he would use her body to teach her lessons about insubordination. He also intended to use her to breed a child for political purposes—and perhaps to satisfy his savage lust.

Lifting her eyes, she looked around her father’s private chamber. No one had made use of the room since his passing, but Gwendolen had nevertheless instructed the servants to come in and dust once a week, and change the bed linens, for she’d wanted the room prepared at all times for her brother’s return. Now it seemed she’d had it prepared instead for her enemy. And for her own deflowering.

She crossed to the bed, where sunshine beamed in through the leaded windows and cast bright squares of light on the crimson coverings. The book her father had been reading lay open on the table beside the lamp. No one had touched the book, nor had anyone moved his shoes, which remained exactly where he’d left them, beside the bed, on the night he died.

Gwendolen looked down at them. They were well worn and formed to the shape of his feet.

What was it about a man’s shoes that made it seem as if he were still alive in the world, and would eventually come home? They were concrete evidence of his existence, she supposed—a part of his physical being. They reminded her of his courage and strength.

She knelt down and ran a finger over one of the leather toes and resolved that she, too, would continue to be brave. No matter what happened, no matter what her conqueror did to her, she would not fall apart. She would not succumb to the power he’d wielded over her in the hall just now, when he’d sealed their bargain with a kiss. She had been caught off guard, that was all, and it would not happen again. Next time she would be prepared for his touch, and the sensations it aroused, and would not become spellbound. Let him come now, and she would fulfill her part of the bargain with courage, dignity, and decorum.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and a key turned in the lock. Her conqueror entered the room, and she suddenly found herself wishing that destiny was not paying such close attention to her lofty aspirations.

She rose to her feet.

“I told you to wait for me in bed.” He gestured toward her with a hand. “Yet, here you stand before me doing the opposite. Are you simpleminded, lass? Or just inept when it comes to following orders?”

“I am the daughter of a great laird, not one of your minions.”

“But you are soon to be my wife.”

“Soon, perhaps,” she replied. “But we are not yet married, nor will we ever be, if you continue to behave like a savage.”

With a steely note of warning in his eyes, he watched her move farther away from the bed. “Did you not learn anything in the hall just now? I won’t be pushed, nor will I tolerate a disobedient wife.”

“And what are you going to do with me if I defy you? Beat me? Kill me? That won’t get you the child you want.”