Wishing For a Highlander (17 page)

He searched his wits for a way to escape his uncle and not just for today, but for all time. Only one possibility came to mind, and it might not even work. He also wasn’t fond of the idea. But for Malina, he’d try it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he called to her over the wind. “Inverness will have to wait. We ride for Dornoch.”

* * * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Melanie exclaimed, looking up at the enormous castle jutting up through the trees. Despite the darkness that had fallen in the last hour, the impressive sandstone building with its glowing windows and steep, stacked-stone foundation looked startlingly familiar to her. It had been thoroughly documented in People magazine when she’d been a senior in high school, and she’d come across a more recent article featuring the historic site in her research for the exhibit.

“Is that Skibo Castle?”

“Ye ken it?” Darcy asked as he guided Rand through the town and toward the towering structure.

“It’s where Madonna and Guy Ritchie got married back in 2000. And in 1898, it was purchased by Andrew Carnegie and completely rebuilt after centuries of lying in ruin. Must have been one heck of an accurate reconstruction, because it looks just like the pictures.”

“I wouldna mention any of that to The Murray, especially the part about his home falling to ruin.”

She huffed a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Except when you have to listen to Edmund and Fran tupping.”

She really laughed then, a full-throated release of the tension that had built over the course of the day. As it turned out, leaning over the neck of a galloping horse for hours on end with a party of rabid Highlanders hot on their trail was a tad stressful; though to be fair, she hadn’t seen any sign of their pursuers since that glimpse of them back at the valley.

“Why Dornoch?” she asked as Rand rounded a stone wall to bring them up to a large barn. “Will we be safe from Steafan’s henchmen here?”

“Aye, for a day or two at least. Rand will have bought us some time with his speed and I took us the long way, through the clay hills. They willna expect us to have turned east after entering the hills, and horses dinna leave tracks on the rock.” Darcy had slowed Rand to a brisk walk through the red, rocky terrain. “We may have lost them altogether. Though if Steafan is determined enough, he’ll find us eventually.”

Leaving her with that less than comforting thought, he dismounted and led Rand to the barn entrance, where a lanky boy rushed out to meet them. Darcy dropped a few coins into his hand and instructed, “Be sure to walk him for a spell. He’s had a hard run. Then give him all the oats he wants.” He helped her down, then landed several firm pats on the horse’s soaked shoulder. “Good lad, Rand. Good lad.”

He turned his concerned gaze on her. “Are ye all right?”

Her legs felt rubbery, and her face and knees were still sore from the unpleasantness in Steafan’s office, but otherwise she was doing remarkably well, considering they’d been running for their lives for the greater part of two days. “Fine,” she answered. Thanks to Rand. Giving the horse a rub between his flaring nostrils, she said, “Thanks, big guy. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

The horse gave a weary bob of his head and then the stable boy led him to a paddock to cool him down.

“What now?” she asked Darcy.

“We go up to Skibo,” he said, his face grim. “And see if the rumors are true.”

Chapter 12

From the impeccable Roman cut of his white-gray hair to the polished silver-and-jeweled hilt at his hip and his luxurious rabbit-fur sporran, Laird Wilhelm Murray looked the epitome of a Scottish warrior king. He wore a burgundy great kilt wrapped over a leather shirt that would double as light armor. The rich wool shifted majestically with his every step as he descended a curved stairway. On his arm was Lady Constance Murray, who looked just as regal in her maroon, flat-fronted French-Renaissance gown and with her salt-and-pepper hair swept up and encircled within a silvery tiara. A roomy hood of Murray plaid loosely covered her head and flared behind her like a cloak.

Caught up in the grandeur, Melanie curtsied on her wobbly legs.

Laird Murray’s silvery-blue eyes fastened on her. His lips twitched. “No need for that, lass. A laird isna royalty, though some like to pretend they are.” He came to a stop in front of Darcy, his hands clasped at his belt. He was easily over six feet tall.

Lady Murray hung back and studied her with shrewd hazel eyes.

“My chief guard tells me you are a Keith and that you wish an audience with me,” the laird said.

“Aye,” Darcy said. “I apologize for the intrusion. We come begging refuge from Laird Steafan of Ackergill.”

Laird Murray emitted a very Scottish sounding harrumph that held more consonants than she had imagined possible to squish together in a single syllable. “Mayhap you’d better sup with us and tell me what this is about. I dinna suppose you’ve eaten.”

“We gratefully accept any hospitality you see fit to extend to us,” Darcy replied.

A plump, aging maid escorted them to a beautifully furnished bedroom with a high, curtained, four-poster bed and a pair of ewers for their washing.

Darcy tossed down his saddlebag and propped his sword against the wall. He looked around the room with his hands on his hips. “I didna expect such a warm welcome,” he said with lowered eyebrows and those pursed lips of his that meant he was thinking hard. The expression endeared him to her, and she realized that during their harried flight, she’d completely forgotten about her resolve to seduce her husband. As long as they were truly safe tonight, she looked forward to carrying on with her plan.

“Does Laird Murray have a reputation for being inhospitable?” she asked, going to one of the ewers and running a damp cloth over her face and chest. She squeezed a little water out so it left dewy drops that ran into her cleavage.

Darcy’s gaze followed the rivulets. He swallowed audibly and turned away. “He has a reputation for being as ruthless in the protection of his clan as Steafan is paranoid.” He put his hand on the door handle. “I’ll step out while ye wash.”

She didn’t give him the chance. She came up behind him with the freshly-wrung cloth and ran it down one of his dusty arms. “I’d prefer for you to stay.”

When he didn’t work the latch, she kept washing his muscular arm, smoothing her fingers over the tawny satin of his water-chilled skin. Needing to dip the cloth again, she tugged him to the dressing table and sat him down, then continued to remove dust from the sculpted mound of his shoulder and the sinewy column of his neck.

As she worked her way down his other arm, she noticed his ears had turned red and he’d clenched his fists on his thighs. His shoulders bunched as if he might bolt any second.

Not quite the reaction she had been hoping for.

The mystery of Darcy Keith deepened. He was attracted to her, wanted her as his wife, but he didn’t want a physical relationship with her. That much she knew already. But this shyness seemed incongruous with his warrior build and his chiseled good looks. It was almost as if he wasn’t accustomed to a woman’s attention.

She was tempted to stop tormenting him, not liking to see him uncomfortable, but couldn’t bring herself to end this quiet moment after the ride they’d had. She also couldn’t deny herself the thrill of this large, beautiful man submitting to her ministrations. But Darcy’s comfort was important to her, so to distract him from whatever had him so tense and embarrassed, she asked him questions about the Murrays. Did they have a history with the Keiths? Was Wilhelm a fair laird? What did it mean to ask another laird for refuge?

Darcy’s coloring returned to normal as he answered, and she learned that he knew very little about Wilhelm, aside from rumors of fiery rampages that had left entire villages and even churches leveled when other clans had dared to cross him.

“Though I wouldna mention those rumors to him,” he tacked on at the end.

“Don’t mention his home falling to ruin. Don’t mention his rampages,” she said. “Is there anything I can say to Laird Murray?”

He thought about it. “Mayhap you’d better–”

“Leave the talkin’ to me,” she finished for him in her laughable impression of a Scottish brogue.

Their eyes met in the mirror over the dressing table. “Aye,” he said with an unguarded half smile. His gaze traveled from her face to the tear in her dress. The sleeve was nearly separated from the bodice, and as a result, the neckline sagged precariously, meaning she needed to move carefully or flash everyone Janet Jackson style. “Mayhap I can ask for some thread and mend your dress for you before dinner.”

Of all the things for him to be concerned about at the moment, it touched her for him to worry about her dress. “That’s sweet, but do we have time for that? It feels like dinner time to me and the little one.” She rubbed her hollow-feeling belly.

He shrugged while he watched her hand in the mirror. “I dinna ken. Mayhap they’ll send someone for us when we’re wanted. Shall I fetch ye some figs from the saddle bag?”

She shook her head. She’d clean her dinner plate for sure, but she wasn’t ready to fall on it like a ravenous beast. Not yet anyway. If she had to wait another hour for dinner, she refused to be held responsible for her actions. But at the moment, she was more concerned with studying her husband. Here he was in a powerful laird’s home, and he seemed unconcerned about impressing or infuriating Wilhelm Murray. Confidence or naivety?

Confidence, she decided. She’d seen Darcy with his uncle, and knew he was not naive when it came to dealing men of power. From all he’d told her this evening, he’d given this meeting with Laird Murray a lot of thought during their ride. Even so, she couldn’t help but worry about what it might cost him to assure their safety from Steafan. Laird Murray did not strike her as one to give something for nothing.

Regardless of what their future held, she had Darcy with her now, and he was relaxing in stages under her care. Moving to stand between his spread knees, she began washing his face with gentle strokes of the cloth over his smooth, tan brow.

His eyes drifted closed, and she took the opportunity to drink in his stunning masculinity. Cinnamon-colored beard stubbled his strong jaw since he hadn’t shaved in more than a day. His nose was straight and broad and slightly reddened by the sun. Between his proud cheekbones and slashing eyebrows, a shade darker than his dark-blond hair, he looked every bit as intimidating as she’d first found him at Berringer’s field. Except now, she wasn’t afraid. Now, he was hers.

Tentative wonder filled her chest.

She set down the cloth and, starting at the tips, began combing her fingers through the wind-blown tangles falling around his face. The prolific number of split ends didn’t detract from the beauty of his majestic mane. In fact, they leant his soft locks a roughness that reminded her of the way his warrior exterior disguised the core of vulnerability he hid from the world. What she wouldn’t give to see his hair washed and combed properly, to have those strands skate over the bare skin of her stomach, her breasts. She sighed. She was a goner for Darcy.

Well, if you’re in serious lust with a man, it might as well be your husband.

By the time she finished untangling his hair, there wasn’t a trace of tension left in his shoulders. His hands were no longer in fists but splayed open on his thighs. He still had his eyes closed. His lips parted with a release of breath and she needed to feel those lips on hers again.

She brought her lips to his in a slow and tentative kiss, careful not to stretch his comfort zone too far. When his hands came around her waist and he drew her down onto his knee to take control of the kiss, she knew she’d won a small victory.

Her husband might be averse to having sex with her, but he did not seem to mind kissing her. And what a kisser he was! His tongue gently pushed into her mouth and stroked hers, around and around, over and under. He explored her as thoughtfully and masterfully as he did anything he set his mind to, and she was glad she had his solid thigh under her because her legs might have given out from sheer sensual delight.

A knock at the door was the only warning they received before the maid bustled in with an armload of clothing. Darcy ended the kiss and went on tense alert again.

She bit back a curse.

“The laird said to give ye these for dinner as your own clothes are a bit travel worn,” the maid said. She dumped the things on the bed and left as abruptly as she’d come.

Darcy cleared his throat. “We shouldna tarry,” he said, standing and setting her on her feet. Without a look back, he went to the bed to study the clothes, a dress in a rich chocolaty-brown brocade with ivory ribbon trim for her, and a folded bundle of burgundy plaid and a large men’s linen shirt for him. He frowned at the kilt.

“He wants you to wear his tartan,” she said, forgetting her frustration over their interrupted kiss. She put a supportive hand on his arm as he weighed the wool in his hand. “That’s significant, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” he said, without looking at her. “It means he expects me to give him my fealty tonight.”

“Please don’t.” He had given up next to everything for her. She couldn’t stand to have him give up his clan by allying himself with another.

“It would be a grave insult for me not to don this.”

“I think it’s a grave insult for Wilhelm to put you in this position.” She folded her arms and scowled at the crisp tartan, completely ignoring the lovely dress she’d been offered.