Highland Deception (Highland Pride) (14 page)

Arabella’s mental instability was why he found himself blowing off his concerns and once again dancing with her. He didn’t want to deal with her hysterics, and now was not the time and place to have a confrontation that would lead to verbal blows and possibly a physical assault from her. As they moved across the floor, he mentally made plans to send Arabella to live with her cousins near Dundee.

This one dance would hopefully placate her. Then he would make his way to Maggie. He could survive another motherent of torture knowing he would be next in line to touch her.

Chapter Eleven

Tight jawed, Maggie glared from the table at Arabella dancing—no, almost gyrating against Lachlan. The auburn-haired beauty was so close to him it wasn’t decent, and her hips moved as if the two of them were alone and unclothed. It was obvious she still wanted him, and she wanted the whole keep to know it.

What heated her blood was he didn’t even try to put distance between them, and offered no hint of restraint as she inched closer and rubbed her breasts into his chest. Arabella laughed in his ear and threw back her head as she gazed at him seductively. Still, the man continued to dance with her.

Maggie reached for the untouched goblet near Alan’s plate. It was a generous dram of whisky he had pushed away as soon as it had been poured. She had never been allowed to have it before, as it was one of those things her father had considered unladylike, and she had stayed clear of it in order not to incur his wrath.

Well, now seemed as if the perfect time to try the drink, men be damned. She peered into the glass, then swirled the amber liquid. It looked harmless. It even looked as if it might be good, so she raised the cup to her nose and sniffed. Not so bad, mayhap a little stronger than ale. Her nose twitched.

What the hell. She lifted the cup toward Lachlan in mock salute and took a big gulp, only to hold the liquid in her mouth, afraid to swallow right away. Her eyes watered and she squared her shoulders to fortify herself before she was tempted to spit it out.

Then she let the liquid glide smoothly down. The whisky was warm, her nose stung, and then her insides started to burn, all the way down to her stomach. A slight aftertaste lingered in her mouth, although it tasted like some of her medicinals. She’d even used whisky for that purpose.

The burning gave way to a warm sensation that was not altogether unpleasant.
’Twas no’ so bad.
Without hesitation, she gulped the rest. Her tongue burned a little, but it went down more smoothly. This time she liked it—why had she waited so long to try it?

Briefly taking her thoughts from the witch with her claws around Lachlan, an unbidden image of her father and brothers drinking was a welcome intrusion. They were not such a bad a sort. Her father didn’t value her opinion—he merely had an antiquated view of women. And her brothers had kept her sane after what Conall had done with Miranda, when she had been forced to turn her back on her friends.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have made it through those terrible years, her mother’s death, the betrothal to that arse, and her father’s determination to use her to further his ambitions.

The whisky was growing on her, and it had gotten her mind off Lachlan for a few motherents, but then Arabella stroked Lachlan’s arm with her hand. He was facing the other way, so she couldn’t see his reaction, but still, he did nothing to stop her. The witch laughed and flashed her big, brown, seductive eyes at him. Maggie’s stomach churned, but it was the thought of losing Lachlan so quickly, not the whisky making her sick.

The amber liquid was quite good. Maggie peered into the empty goblet and smiled at her little act of defiance. Her irrational feelings of jealousy had started to fade until Arabella pulled Lachlan out the door. Her breath caught, and her eyes started to water.

So Lachlan was done with her already. She’d known it was coming, but after only one night? She reached for the cup by Lachlan’s trencher. His portion was even larger. After gulping it, she slammed the goblet back down on the table with a little more force than she’d intended. Luckily no one had noticed.

“Good eve, fair lass.” The words were purred seductively by a dark-haired man who bowed and took her hand. “I am Brodie, Lachlan’s cousin.”

He held her hand just a little too long. There was a resemblance—his smile was similar to Lachlan’s, except he had two dimples and chocolate-colored eyes that twinkled with a playful glint.

Brodie was devastatingly handsome, but his practiced pleasantries were almost too much of a good thing. He didn’t have the rugged quality Lachlan possessed or the command of a born leader or that overly serious glare, which hinted of a need to keep her safe. Yet, the man in front of her would make any lass swoon just for a few motherents of his time. But she felt nothing. Lachlan had ruined her for life.

“Will ye let me have the privilege of escorting ye in the next dance?” His eyes sparkled merrily like he was impersonating an English lord at court instead of a rough Highlander from the wild free lands of Scotland. A motherentary flash revealed a deep sadness hidden beneath his skillfully crafted words. She barely picked up on the emotion before it was gone.

“I would love to, sir.” Rising, she giggled at his overly flagrant formality and returned a perfectly overdone curtsy as she banished her melancholy.

This was a celebration, after all, and she was determined to have a good time. She had been to so few in her life that Maggie wouldn’t let irrational jealousy ruin her fun. Surely there were no parties at a convent, which was still her final destination.

As they glided to the center of the room, she offered her arm to Brodie and he threaded his through hers. She smiled and turned to face him with the intention of letting the music and dance sweep her into another world, one where she would forget the man she’d given herself to, who had left the hall with a viperous trollop. Damned if she was going to let his roguish ways ruin her good time.

It was easy to believe they were kin. Brodie’s darker eyes weren’t as piercing as Lachlan’s; they were softer and warmer, despite the pain that flitted through the depths, yet he almost had her bent over with laughter.

“If my cousin werenae so enamored with ye, I would compare yer eyes to the stars in the heavens and your curves to the gently rolling hills of bonny Scotland.”

They moved swiftly and smoothly around the floor. He had one hand on her waist and held her other as the beat picked up in the lively tune.

“Ye are a heartless rogue, but I would love to hear ye tell me how fair I am.” Before long, his amusing banter coaxed her back into good humor. Her cheeks warmed from the exertion and quite possibly from the effects of the whisky.

Brodie spun her around, and she almost lost her footing. He pulled her in close to keep her from falling over. “Och. Steady, lass. Lachlan willnae forgive me if ye are injured in my care.”

“’Tis the spirits. I am usually all grace.” She rolled her eyes.

Maggie almost lost her footing again when Brodie’s sinewy form lurched backward and disappeared from her grasp. As he had let her go abruptly, she flailed to keep her balance, the motion a blur that sent the room spinning around her. The music stopped.

The loud thud of Lachlan’s fist hitting the flesh of Brodie’s cheek reverberated in the hall, and everything went silent. Maggie gasped at the fury in Lachlan’s eyes.

Her hands flew unbidden to her throat. It was the same look he had given her when he had held her up against that tree.

…

Lachlan stalked back into the hall shaking his head. Arabella had had the audacity to try to kiss him. Too many times he had told her they were through, but she was hardheaded. The last thing he needed was Maggie seeing the wench behaving like she owned him. He was done with Arabella’s antics.

The hall was crowded tonight, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. He was determined to collect Maggie and take her to his bed. Elbowing through the crowd, he made his way toward the table. She wasn’t there. He caught a glimpse of her dancing and laughing with Brodie, of all people, and he cursed under his breath.

Brodie was an insatiable rogue, able to woo any lass; there was something about him they couldn’t resist. He had a silver tongue skilled in the art of persuading wenches into his bed and he was well-known in the Highlands as a heartbreaker. But Maggie wouldn’t know of his reputation.

Flushed and smiling, Maggie looked up at his cousin with those deep blue eyes he wanted focused on him alone. His knuckles whitened as his hands clenched the back of his seat. The couple shifted, and Brodie pulled her into his body, which was when Lachlan saw red. In one leap, he bounded over the table and stalked toward them, intent to kill. He was out of control, but his only concern was getting his woman out of the worm’s lecherous hands.

Lachlan reached them, latched onto his cousin’s shoulder, and swung him around. Someone grabbed Lachlan’s arm just as his fist flew toward Brodie’s face.

Brodie had been slightly off balance from being spun, so when Lachlan hit his cheek, the blow slid off without causing much damage. As he tried to go for him again, a set of arms coiled around him and Malcolm jumped between the two, yelling, “Calm down.”

“What have I done, cousin?” the rogue asked as he rubbed his cheek.

“Ye had yer hands all over my woman.” His breath was ragged as he fumed through clenched teeth. Maggie’s head was quirked to the side, and she blinked as if she was trying to bring him into focus, and her hand went to her throat. Hell, he’d not meant to scare her.

“Maggie tripped. I caught her. Would ye rather I let her fall?” Brodie clipped back.

Lachlan looked to her for confirmation. She nodded, and he saw the truth in her eyes, which calmed him some.

“Ye got yer senses back, Lachlan?” He recognized Alan’s voice from behind. He was one of the men holding him back. “Maggie may need some fresh air. She looks flushed.”

Once Brodie backed farther away from Maggie, Lachlan’s tension loosened and his fists unclenched. Alan, and whoever else held him, slowly let him go. Taking Maggie’s hand, he pulled her toward the door. He could use some space to cool his temper as well, and he wanted an explanation as to why she had been gazing up at his cousin with flirtatious, welcoming eyes.

She stumbled as he pulled her through the door and out into the crisp night air. He wasn’t sure if it was because he dragged her along or because she could not handle her ale, but when he realized her small frame couldn’t keep up with his much longer legs, he slowed. An invigorating breeze cleared his senses and eased the muscles that had tightened like a bowstring, but he was still far from calm. Because she followed him without protest, he slackened his pace.

Unfamiliar emotions swirling in his head drove him mad. In that motherent, he could have killed his favorite cousin. Had she wanted Brodie to hold her like that? The thought reignited his fury, and he tightened his grip on her again.

“Och, ye brute. That hurts.” Her delicate fingers squirmed to be freed. He grunted in return and loosened his hold slightly.

Finally, when they had come to the base of the old oak where he’d found Maggie earlier, he stopped. Even through his fevered haze he was struck by how beautiful she was in the moonlight and how her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair.

It was a dark night, but the moon and stars played a game of peekaboo through the clouds and teased him with their reflections in her sapphire eyes. Up close, he could see a pink flush on her cheeks. He wanted to stay angry, but as he studied her bewildered gaze and took in how her fingers trembled in his, he lost his resolve.

“What was that with Brodie?” His jaw ticked.

She pursed her lips and didn’t reply right away. Now he wished he had taken her somewhere better lit—he could usually tell if she was lying, but in this light, could he trust his senses? Thankfully, the clouds rolled away and he had a clear view into her eyes, her soul.

She blinked. “We were dancing. Ye were off with Arabella.” She had the audacity to roll her eyes and tug her hand free from his. Was that jealousy in her bitter reply? “Why do ye even care?” she finally bit out, then turned back toward the keep.

Catching her wrist, he twirled her to face him and said tersely, “Ye are mine. Ye willnae let another touch ye.”

“I belong to no one. I amnae wed,” she retorted as she pulled out of his grasp and crossed her arms. She stamped her foot. It was strangely amusing until the words registered.

Aye, her view had merit, but he wouldn’t accept it. “Ye are on my land.” It was weak, but she couldn’t argue with it.

“I will leave if ye wish,” she countered as her eyes narrowed into slits and her lips tightened.

How could she consider leaving him after last night? Could he make her stay? “Nae, ye willnae.”

“Why? Ye have Arabella.” Her lip quavered.

He saw it for certain now—she was jealous. His chest swelled, and a primal pride eclipsed his anger. He had left the hall with Arabella to tell the woman to leave him be, and she had gotten the wrong impression. His heart leaped. Maggie was jealous, just as he had been, and he couldn’t help when one side of his mouth curved up in satisfaction.

“Nae,” he said softly, and he reached up to touch her cheek then push back a stray curl. “I dinnae want her. I want ye.” His fingers traced her lips. She shivered and closed her eyes, then swayed. He snaked his other hand around her waist to catch her. “How much ale did ye have, lass?”

Opening her eyes, she gazed directly into his. Hidden just below the surface were her secrets, there for the asking. Would she let them out? Maybe the drink would get her to open up to him. “Just the one cup with dinner, but someone put whisky on the table.”

She smiled an impish grin that lifted her flushed cheeks as if she were a child who had gotten away with something she shouldn’t have done.

“’Twasnae so bad after it stopped burning.” Then she hiccuped, and it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

“What made ye drink that, lass? ’Tis potent stuff.” He laughed at her innocence.

As sincere as she could be, she peeked up at him through lowered lids. With a sadness that had crept into their depths, her bonny eyes cut to his bones like a cold night on Ben Nevis. “Ye were dancing with her.” She pouted.

Oh, heaven help him, she was even beautiful when she was sulking.

He lowered his head and kissed the rosy lips he’d been craving all day. They were soft like French silk, but when she opened to him and her tongue met his, he was reminded that her heart was as free and wild as Scotland herself. Lachlan deepened the kiss, and his length began to waken and strain beneath his plaid. She tasted of whisky, warm and bold and full of life.