Ravished by a Highlander (38 page)

“M’ lord, ye and yer men are welcomed to stay in Camlochlin fer as long as ye like.”

James turned to Callum MacGregor and smiled. “As much as I would enjoy that, I’m afraid I must return to England with haste.
We left without a word and I shudder to think what my sons-in-law are scheming in my absence.”

Callum nodded and settled his mournful gaze on his son.

“You taught your sons to fight well, MacGregor. Their skill surpasses that of some of my captains. There is a question I would
put to you, but first, one I would ask Robert.”

Callum nodded and looked at his son together with the king.

“Back there,” James said, motioning his chin northward, “when my men were about to bring me here and you stopped them, did
you not realize that if I was shot and killed, she would have been free? No one knows she is here save for us—and Gilles,
who is no longer a threat. Why did you protect me?”

For a moment, Robert simply looked at him as if he genuinely did not know how to answer the question. James hoped he would
confess his fealty to his king. The question he wanted to ask Callum next depended on it.

“I simply did what is in my nature to do.”

The lad’s first instinct was to protect. The king could not fault such a reply, though it was not the one he’d hoped for.
Nevertheless, he downed his brew, giving himself an extra moment or two to decide how best to propose his next question, then
turned to the chief. He didn’t need permission to draft anyone into his army, but he wanted to keep the MacGregors on his
side. Any king would be foolish not to.

“I have grown quite fond of Colin. He is courageous, boldly honest, and quite deadly with a sword. He already knows much about
the politics of the land and despises the Covenanters as much as I do. Robert, I do not yet know, but his skill on the field
today impressed me. I would like to bring your sons back to England with me and enlist them in my army. Colin is your youngest,
I know, but with—”

“I’ve nae interest in England,” Rob cut him off without hesitation. “My place is here and I’ll no’ leave it.”

“But son,” the king implored. “You and Davina can—”

“—spend each day wonderin’ which hand conceals the next dagger planned fer her back?” Rob finished for him. “Is that the life
ye want fer her? Hell, she deserves more than that. I can give it to her, but no’ in yer courts. Even I canna’ guard her from
hundreds of unknown enemies.”

James sat back in his chair, unable to argue the truth. He was barely on the throne a month and his enemies had already tried
to kill him. How long would Davina last if the next attempt succeeded? “She is my child,” he said in a low voice.

“And she is likely carryin’ mine.”

Every Highlander around the table seemed to groan at the same time. The chief looked about to be seriously ill. Stunned by
both Robert’s courage and his arrogance to blurt out such a thing, the king began to rise to his feet. “Do you understand
what I can do to you for this?”

“Aye, I do,” Robert answered, holding up his palm to stop his father from speaking in his defense. “But what kind of faither
would I be no’ to do everything I can to protect my bairn? How different am I from ye?”

The king fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. Every choice he’d ever made involving Davina came rushing back to his
mind. He’d done all to protect her, even at the cost of his brother, the king’s, objection.

“I will go.”

James opened his eyes and looked, along with everyone else, at Colin.

“Nae,” the chief answered quickly. “Yer place is here with yer kin.”

“Faither, I dinna’ want to spend my life fighting the MacPhersons over cattle. Rob is to be chief someday. There is naught
here fer me. I want to fight fer something I believe in.”

“I will need a man with his intelligence and skill to protect my son,” the king interjected, “should I be fortunate enough
to have one in the future.”

“So ye believe in England’s causes now?” Colin’s father asked his son skeptically.

“I believe in him.” Colin shifted his gaze to the king. A hint of a smile hovered about his lips and then his expression hardened.
“I will go, yer Majesty. But I ask ye to spare my brother in return.”

James spread his cool gaze over Colin and then onto his eldest brother. “Ask something else of me. I have already decided
to forgive my daughter’s champion. As for her future, I will let her decide.”

Surprisingly, James noted the sickened look on Rob’s face. Did he doubt Davina would choose him? Why would he when it was
so clear that she loved him? “Bring her to me, will you, Robert? I trust your mother and your aunt will not take offense to
giving her over to you.”

Robert rose from his chair and gave the stairs and what lay beyond a determined scowl, much like the one he wore on the battlefield.
Watching him leave the hall, the king knew that whatever life his daughter chose, Robert MacGregor would not give her up without
a fight.

“Colin,” his father said, dragging the king’s thoughts back to the table. “Are ye certain aboot this?” His concern for his
youngest still marred his brow.

“Aye, faither. Someone’s got to keep the Protestants at bay, and better me than Mairi.”

His father didn’t laugh. In fact, James noticed that he’d gone even paler than before.

“Is your daughter as loyal to Scotland as your sons, then?” the king asked.

“Worse.”

James chuckled, but he envied the mighty chief for his fine family. It wasn’t until he saw Rob leading his beautiful daughter
down the stairs that he felt God’s favor in his life as well. He loved his daughters, Mary and Anne, but they had grown hard
from their lives at this court and that, and from their arranged marriages to men they did not love. Everything about Davina
was delicate and graceful, like a pale swan gliding toward him. Her gait lacked the air of self-righteousness that her sisters
possessed. The tilt of Davina’s chin was wrought with inner strength, not conceit. Watching her, he thought of his first wife.
Anne had never cared about becoming queen. Being his was enough and she’d filled his halls and his days with her laughter.
She would want the same life for her firstborn.

When they reached him, Davina’s defiant gaze followed James as he rose to his feet, but she said nothing and clung to her
husband’s hand.

James folded his hands together behind his back to keep himself from dragging her into them and rejoicing that she lived.
“You wed without my knowledge or consent, daughter.”

“You were not here to give it,” she replied evenly.

“No, I wasn’t. An unforgivable error I intend to remedy.”

He almost smiled when her eyes softened on him. All hope was not lost. “Clearly you were not forced into becoming his wife.”

Her mouth relaxed into an unbidden smile when she looked up at the man at her side. “I was ecstatic.”

“Then I am prepared,” James announced, pulling their attention off each other and back to him, “to allow you to remain here
with him if you choose to.”

“If I choose…?” Her voice trailed off as her large eyes opened wider and filled with tears. “I choose to remain here with
him.”

James smiled, finally able to grant his daughter something she wished. He had no idea that he had just become her bright star
in the sky. “Then accept the first of many gifts I will be giving you, and take my blessing.”

The men around him cheered and someone even pounded him on the back, but King James saw no one, heard no one save the girl
before him, and then she was in his arms and he finally felt forgiven.

“You and I have much to learn about each other, daughter,” he whispered close to her ear. “I will be visiting often.”

“I would like that, Father. Very much.”

Rob pulled his tunic over his head and climbed into bed. The candlelight brushed his face in broad strokes of light and dark.
Beneath the sexy stray curl falling over his forehead, his eyes glittered with the hunger consuming him. Davina reached out
her arms to gather him to her sooner.

“When was the day you knew you loved me?” she asked as his mouth fell gently on hers. “I want to thank God for it every day
and night.”

“’Twas the verra first day I met ye,” Rob told her, biting her lip. “Ye had just lost everything, and I wanted to give it
all back to ye.”

“You succeeded and gave me even more.” She curled her lips and closed her eyes at the feel of him hot and thick against her
entrance.

“I never doubted I would.” He entered her with a smile as intoxicating as every other inch of him.

“Do you fail at nothing then?”

“I’m a MacGregor,” he groaned against her chin, sending a wave of pleasure through her body. “There’s verra little we dinna’
do right.”

“Is that so?” She lifted a provocative brow at him and rolled him over on his back. Straddling him, she gazed down at his
broad chest and his flat, fit belly and smiled rather wickedly as she buried him deep inside her. “Lucky for you then. I’m
a MacGregor now, too.”

“Aye, and ye’re mine.”

She was his, and it was more than enough to keep his halls forever filled with her laughter.

A
rrogant imbecile!” Isobel Fergusson pushed through the heavy wooden doors and entered Whitehall Palace’s enormous privy garden
with a dozen venomous oaths spilling from her lips. Her brother Alex was going to get them all killed. Oh, why had they come
to England? And damnation, if they had to attend the Duke of York’s coronation, it should be Patrick, her eldest brother and
heir to their father, the late Fergusson chieftain, here with her and not Alex. They were only supposed to stay for a se’nnight
or two, but when the future king invited all his guests to remain at Whitehall for another month, Alex had accepted. She kicked
a small rock out of her path and swore again. How could she have raised such an imprudent, thoughtless bratling?

’Twasn’t that Isobel was impervious to the lure of Whitehall’s luxurious feathered mattresses, its grand galleries with vaulted
ceilings where even the softest whispers, uttered by elegant lords and ladies powdered to look like living, breathing statues,
echoed. ’Twas all quite… unusual and beguiling in a queer sort of way. But Alex had accepted knowing the MacGregors were here!

“Dear God,” she beseeched, stopping at a large, stone sundial in the center of the garden, “give me strength and my witless
brother wisdom before he starts another war!”

A movement to her right drew her attention to a row of tall bronze statues gleaming in the sun. When one of them moved, Isobel
startled back and bumped her hip against the sundial.

“Careful, lass.”

He wasn’t a statue at all, but a man—though his face could have been crafted by the same artist who had created the masterpieces
lining the garden. Isobel took in every inch of him as he stepped out from behind the golden likeness of an archangel, wings
paused forever in flight as it landed on its pedestal. He wore the garb of an Englishman, but without all the finery… or the
wig. His hair hung loose to his shoulders in shades of rich chestnut and sun-streaked gold. The ruffled collar of his cream-colored
shirt hung open at his throat, giving him a more roguish appearance than a noble one. He was tall and lithe, with long, muscular
legs encased in snug-fitting breeches and dull black boots. His steps were light but deliberate as he moved toward her.

“I didna’ mean to startle ye.” The musical pitch of his voice branded him Scottish, mayhap even a Highlander. “I thought ye
were my sister.”

His smile was utterly guileless, save for the flash of a playful dimple in one cheek, and as warm and inviting as the heavenly
body perched behind him. For a moment that went completely out of her control, Isobel could not move as she took in the full
measure of his striking countenance. Save for the slight bend at the bridge, his nose was classically cut, residing above
a mouth fashioned to strip a woman of all her defenses, including reasonable thought. The way his eyes changed from brown
to simmering gold, like a hawk’s that spotted its prey, hinted of something far more primitive beyond the boyish smile.

“I am infinitely grateful that I was mistaken.”

Isobel took a step around the sundial, instinctively keeping her distance from a force that befuddled her logic and tightened
her breath.

Damnation, she had to say something before he thought her exactly what she was—exactly what any other woman with two working
eyes in her head was when they saw him—a doddering fool. With a tilt of her chin that suggested she was a fool for no man,
she flicked her deep auburn braid over her shoulder and said, “Yer sister thinks ye are an arrogant imbecile, also?”

“Aye,” he answered with a grin that was all innocence and innately seductive at the same time. “That, and much worse.”