Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (15 page)

“Ye can always change yer mind about being my châtelaine,” he quietly
broached.

“And
become your mistress instead?”

Ever hopeful,
he gamely nodded. “Aye. But the choice is up to you,” he added, unwilling to take away what he’d already given to her.

“
In that case, I choose to be your châtelaine,” Yvette affirmed, wrapping her dignity around her like a protective mantle. Then, for just a brief instant, his selkie smiled at him. “But I thank you for giving me a choice in the matter.”

And the devil take
me for doing it.

As she entered the crowded great hall, Yvette’s stomach churned
. No different than if she’d just quaffed a tankard of sour milk.

Amid
st the raucous commotion and boisterous shouts, she hoped to pass unnoticed. Then, after she seated herself at a trestle table, she intended to quickly consume her meal before unobtrusively taking her leave.

Espying Eara, she scurried toward the young woman, relieved when the scullion maid gestured to a vacant spot beside her.
Now at least she would be spared the discomfort of having to dine betwixt two Gaelic-speaking strangers.

“Woman!
I would have ye sit at the high table!”

Upon
hearing that deep, booming voice, the heretofore noisy hall became noticeably subdued.

Peering over her shoulder to where Iain sat at the elevated table
that was prominently situated against the back wall, Yvette hesitated. Iain had about him an imperious air, the man well aware that
here
in his great hall, he was lord and master of all he surveyed. This was his domain, Yvette merely one of his vassals. His to order and subjugate as he saw fit.

“I wouldna tarry if I was ye,” Eara said in
a lowered voice. “The laird has the look of the devil about him.”

Surely,
an understatement
, Yvette thought worriedly, Iain wearing the same fierce scowl he’d worn during the whole of their interminably long, silent walk back to the castle.

Wondering why he would want her seated at his table when she obviously had an ill
-effect upon his humors, Yvette reluctantly put one foot in front of the other, making slow work of moving from the trestle table where she wanted to eat to the high table where she’d been ordered to sup. As she neared the dais, Diarmid surged to his feet and hurried to her side, gallantly taking her by the elbow and ushering her the remaining distance.

“How fare ye, Lady Yvette?” he pleasantly inquired, h
is solicitude much appreciated.

Favoring him with a grateful smile, she
said, “I am as well as can be expected given the fate that awaits me.”

“If ye’re referring to the scowl on Iain’s face, ye dinna have to worry . . . his bark is worse than his bite,”
Diarmid assured her with a conspiratorial wink.

“Then you do not know him as well as you contend.”

“I know that when ye didna grace us wi’ yer presence last night, he did naught but sulk and drink whisky.”

A revelation
that surprised Yvette. Although she had no time to ponder on it, Diarmid depositing her in front of a cushioned stool that had been placed beside Iain’s carved chair. Laoghaire, seated on the other side of her brother, openly glared at her.

“Stop yer gawking and sit down, woman,” Iain ordered, having risen to his feet at her approach.

Vexed, she crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to comply. If Diarmid could respectfully call her by name, surely the laird of the castle could extend the same courtesy.

“My
name is Yvette!” she angrily asserted, making no attempt to lower her voice. “Yvette Marie de Burgh Beauchamp.”

“I know yer bloody name!”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Yvette cooed, sarcasm fair dripping from her tongue. “I was under the impression that you believed my name to be ‘woman.’” Pulling her skirt aside, she flounced onto the stool.

“Are ye through browbeating me?” Iain snarled as he seated himself in his ornately carved
chair.

A hushed silence
descended over the great hall, every neck craned, every torso bent forward, the gathered throng not even attempting to hide the fact that they were avidly eavesdropping.

Suddenly
worried that she’d baited Iain into a bear-like fury, Yvette guardedly nodded her head.

“
I’m pleased to hear it.” Raising his empty goblet, Iain then smiled at her and said, “Because I would have ye pour me a cup of wine, sweet Yvette.”

The great hall erupted in laughter, the assembled diners amused at how the heated exchange
had ended.

Not
nearly so amused, her cheeks burning as though she’d been standing too close to the bread oven, Yvette wanted to melt into the rushes, the man having succinctly put her in place. Which clearly pleased Iain, his scowl now replaced with a jovial grin.

Because there was n
either a butler nor a cup bearer – Castle Maoil’s domestic organization shockingly informal – Yvette reached for the simple clay flagon and poured the requested cup of wine, dismayed to notice that her hand visibly shook.

When she inadvertently sloshed several drops of wine onto Iain’s wrist, he
said, “Careful, lass. Ye’ll have me mopping the table wi’ my kilt if ye dinna stop yer trembling.” Still grinning, he raised his goblet and took several swallows. By the time he lowered the goblet, the grin had completely vanished from his face. “Wha’ have ye done to the wine?”

“Is it not to your liking?”
Over Eara’s strenuous objection, she’d ordered the wine spiced with ginger, cardamom and cinnamon.

Iain dubiously stared at the contents of the goblet
before he braved another sip.

“For all that it is unusual tasting, it sits pleasant
ly on my tongue,” he remarked after a moment’s consideration, the assertion validated with a deep-throated gulp.

“I am pleased.”

“And do ye like pleasing me, sweet Yvette?”

Given the sudden
press of Iain’s leg against hers, Yvette intuited that his query had nothing to do with the spiced wine.

Her suspicions
were confirmed a moment later when Iain unexpectedly took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips, the kiss that ensued like a hot brand against her knuckles.

Startled by the show of affection,
Yvette tried to yank her hand free; only to have Iain tighten his hold.

“If you do not release my hand, everyone present will think
that I’m your mistress,” she hissed between tightly clenched teeth.

“Let them think it.
I care naught,” Iain replied with an unconcerned shrug as he kissed her hand one more time before finally relaxing his fingers, allowing her to pull free of him.

Sweet Mary!
He wants his kinsmen to think that I’m his mistress
.

Bewildered,
Yvette stared at the silver saltcellar that stood sentry in front of them. A proud man, Iain obviously had no intention of making her rejection of him public. And though she had refused to be his whore, she wouldn’t shame him in front of his kinsmen. Nor would she gainsay anyone who mistakenly believed that she shared his bed.

He
did, after all, give me a choice.

At c
atching a whiff of well-seasoned venison, Yvette belatedly realized that a platter of meat had been placed on the table.

“Ye’ll have need of this to eat yer meat,” Iain casually remarked as he plucked
Yvette’s jeweled dagger from his leather belt and placed it beside her trencher. Because he’d confiscated the dagger when he abducted her a sennight ago, Yvette had assumed that was the last she’d ever see of it.

“I am surprised that you trust me to carry so deadly a weapon.”

“There are deadlier weapons that a woman can wield,” Iain murmured, carefully watching as she slid the knife from its jewel-encrusted sheath. “But ye might have need of this one to ward off us brutish MacKinnons. I’ve heard it said that we are naught but ‘great Scottish barbarians.’”

“Yea, I have heard the same,”
Yvette countered with a teasing lilt in her voice, her spirits greatly buoyed by the unexpected return of her dagger.

“I had intended to give the dagger to ye yesterday evening, but ye did no’ deign to share my table.”

“I would have gladly shared your table if not for all the accusing stares and whispers,” she impetuously confessed, her high spirits instantly deflated. “Many present hold me accountable, not only for your brother’s death, but Hamish MacKinney’s, as well. And I’ve had to bear much scorn on account of it.”

What
Yvette purposefully withheld was that most of the enmity had been fueled by the laird’s own sister, Laoghaire taking a malicious delight in blaming her for both men’s tragic demise.

“Do ye care
so much what my kinsmen think?” Iain inquired, his expression having sobered considerably.

“Yea, I d
o,” she affirmed with a nod. “Until the ransom is paid, I must live amongst them. I would rather have peaceful relations with your kinsmen than discord.”

Iain
leaned closer to her. “And what of me and you? Would ye have us live in peace, as well?”

“If at all possible.”

“Then smile sweetly and open yer mouth,” he ordered as he held a small piece of meat aloft.

Surmising
that he desired to strengthen the illusion that she was his mistress, Yvette wordlessly complied.

Much to her regret. For the instant that
Iain’s fingers touched the inside of her lower lip, she experienced a pleasurable spasm between her legs.

So pleasurable, it caused her to shudder ever so slightly.

I am feeling lust
, she thought dismally, baffled as to how the mere touch of Iain MacKinnon’s finger could incite so potent a reaction.

Perhaps it
wasn’t just his touch that incited her wanton response. Perhaps it was the undeniable fact that Iain was a vital, robust man. If not the most handsome man present, he was by far the most compelling. With his dark mane plaited at the temples, high-bridged Celtic nose and chiseled cheekbones, he looked like a warrior of old; one of those daring, savage Highlanders who’d fearlessly repelled the Roman advance.

But
Yvette also knew that a man like Iain would ruthlessly use a woman.
To assuage his lust. To avenge his family honor. And to line his pockets.

He considered her naught but a vessel that he could fill and drink from at his leisure. Over the course of her l
ife, Yvette had known many such men. Roland Beauchamp. The Earl of Angus. Sir Galen de Ogilvy.
My own father
. She had no pretensions as to Iain’s true nature.

Although
the reason why he’d given her a choice was very much a mystery to her. He held all the power at Castle Maoil. He could have easily used his brute strength to force her to his bed. But he chose not to.

Diarmid had been adamant that
the laird was ‘an honorable man.’
When he’d made the assertion, Yvette had refused to believe him, the claim having been made too soon on the heels of her initial abduction.

But mayhap it
is true
.

Perhaps
Iain MacKinnon was indeed an honorable man. A rarity in an age of unchecked avarice and unbridled ambition.

Out of the corner of her eye,
Yvette watched as Iain reached for the loaf of bread that had been placed on the table by one of the kitchen servants. The muscles in his arm bunched and flexed as he tore a hunk from the elaborately braided loaf, stretching the shortened sleeve on his plain brown linsey-woolsey tunic. She’d felt that arm about her enough times to know that his bronzed muscles were as hard as honed steel.

“’Tis verra fragrant,” he conversationally remarked, sniffing at the piece of herbed bread bef
ore sinking his teeth into it. “And verra delicious,” he added a few moments later.

“It is seasoned with rosemary,”
Yvette informed him, pleased that it met with his approval. Like the spiced wine, the braided herbed bread had elicited a wary response from Eara and the other scullions.

A
dark brow lifted, an amused smile hovering on Iain’s lips. “I believe I know who the culprit is behind the curiously shaped loaf.” Still smiling, he fingered the tightly coiled ramshorn braids that framed either side of Yvette’s face. “Ye are the only woman in the castle who wears her hair braided thus.”

“’Tis the
, er, English fashion,” Yvette stammered, chagrined at hearing her voice breathlessly catch.

God’s heart!
The man has only to touch me and I turn into a quivering lackwit.

“While I am no’ so fond of the English, the style suits ye.”

Recalling the brutal way he’d slashed her tresses, Yvette said, “Mercifully, I still have enough hair to style it in the English fashion.”

“Och, dinna remind me.
I have regretted cutting your hair every day since,” Iain informed her with a woeful shake of the head. “Ye were verra beautiful standing there wi’ yer hair rippling down yer backside. Christ’s blood, it went all the way to yer arse.”

“Be that as it may, my hair now only goes as far as
—”

“Yer teats,”
Iain crooned, his gaze dropping to her bosom.