To Desire a Highlander (3 page)

Most alarming of all was the huge warrior at the prow.

Donell MacDonnell.

His dark hair blew in the wind, and mail glinted at his broad, plaid-draped chest. He was every inch as big as she remembered. Only now he looked even more formidable.
Thick-bearded and frowning, he could’ve been Thor swooped down from Asgard to strike fear into the hearts of mortal men. Most surprising of all, his girth had somehow shifted so that rather than a great ale-belly, what now drew her eye was the width of his shoulders and the many silver rings lining his muscular arms.

A great bear of a man, he looked stronger than six men. His scowl—a dark one surely aimed at her—left no doubt that he wasn’t a man to cross. She could see him whipping out his sword in a heartbeat, swinging with deadly skill. Without doubt, he was the fiercest, most masculine man she’d ever seen.

She’d been raised among Highlanders, warriors who wielded their weapons as easily as they blinked or quaffed ale. But some men were bolder than most, able to claim the very air around them with only a glance.

Somehow, her betrothed had become such a man.

For a beat, she felt sure she might sway on her feet. She knew her pulse was racing, tried hard to ignore the fluttery sensation in the lower reaches of her stomach. She pressed a hand to her throat, finding it difficult to breathe.

In her memory, carrying such a great blade as the one strapped to his hip would’ve winded him. He’d have huffed and puffed, his face turning red with the effort.

Now…

The five years away must’ve hardened him.

Gillian inhaled tightly, not knowing what to think.

She could feel his gaze slamming into her, branding her, the shock and disbelief stunning her.

Their gazes locked, the impact intense and disconcerting.

Her breath caught again.

Before she could lift her chin, showing she wouldn’t be intimidated, the sea mist thickened and billowing sheets of gray swirled around the ship’s prow, hiding Donell and his galley from view. But she could still hear the creak and splash of the oar-blades, the beat of the gong as the ship sped closer.

Any moment, it would flash up onto the landing beach. She could almost feel the sand trembling, the cliffs shaking with the fury of Donell’s arrival.

She also knew, deep in her bones, that he was more than a changed man.

She’d only caught a glimpse of him, but it’d been enough.

He wouldn’t be bought.

He’d claim her and seize her pouch of ancient treasure. He’d devour her whole and spit out her bones. Laughing, he’d crack his knuckles and glance about for his next victim. She could almost feel his pleasure in the triumph, see the gleam in his eye.

His ruthlessness left her with one choice.

She’d have to be even bolder.

Chapter Two

H
o, Roag! Were we no’ making for Laddie’s Isle?” Conn of the Strong Arm, braw helmsman of the
Valkyrie
, raised his deep voice, his amusement ringing. “It looks to be a place of women.”

“You err,” Roag the Bear called back to him. He stood high atop the ship’s prow-platform where, until just moments ago, he’d been in a good temper, enjoying the cold winds and steep running seas. In particular, he’d been admiring the isle’s soaring cliffs and rugged headlands. He appreciated wild places and was eager to reach his new home.

Now he wore a frown, his brows drawn together as he tried to peer through the thick wall of mist that had swept up out of nowhere.

“There are nae women on that rocky spit of land, be sure of it!” Roag lifted his voice above the wind, willing it so. “Some say a wee laddie walks the isle, a boy thin as air and easy to gaze through!” He glanced over his shoulder
at the men on the oar-banks, flashed a grin. “The poor mite gave the isle its name, so the legend.

“For sure, the stories of him scare folk away.” He turned back to the sea, the whirling mist that only seemed to worsen. “I cannae think of any women who’d dare risk meeting him.”

Some of the men behind him chuckled, clearly of the same opinion.

“I saw a lass, I say you!” Conn argued, belligerent as always. “Right fetching, she was. Well-made and with a fine set of—”

“You saw rocks and mist, you arse.” Roag glanced up at the dragon-head above him, prayed to the gods that his friend was wrong, his mistake caused by a trick of the mist or, more likely, all the ale he’d quaffed the night before.

“Think you I cannae tell a wench from stone?” Conn thumped his chest, his mirth making the others laugh again. “I haven’t yet seen a curl o’ mist that made my fingers itch to grab it.”

A smile twisted Roag’s lips despite his annoyance. “Then its ale fumes bewitching you, letting your eyes see what’s no’ there. The mist hereabouts isn’t like other mist. It drifts and dances, some say it even has a soul. Could be a curl of it thought to tempt you?”

His men sniggered.

Conn roared, his laughter echoing across the waves. “ ’Tis smooth, hot, and wet female flesh that maddens me, as every man here knows.

“And there be naught wrong with my eyes.” He fell quiet then, and Roag knew he’d be nodding his shaggy, red-bearded head, looking round for sympathy.

Roag just hoped his sight had deceived him as well.
He’d also glimpsed a shapely, flame-haired female on the islet’s rocky shore. She’d looked right at him, her eyes blazing with fury, her hands on her hips as if by sheer will she hoped to blast him from the sea.

Then the wretched fog swept in and she was gone.

Unfortunately, he could still feel her out there, staring at him with fire in her eye, wishing him ill with a ferocity that scorched his gizzard.

She could only be a siren, a selkie, or a sorceress.

As she clearly despised men, he didn’t care to discover which.

If he was lucky, his own aching ale-head had conjured her.

He and his men had knocked back a few ales too many at the Saucy Wench inn and tavern before they’d set sail for the last stretch of their journey, a foray of great importance that didn’t need the distraction or interference of females, mythic or otherwise.

For that reason, he’d made certain that his men enjoyed themselves to the hilt, as it were, with the big-hearted, light-skirted lassies at the Saucy Wench.

He peered again into the mist, this time catching another glimpse of the island’s rugged and precipitous coast. It was hard to tell for sure, but he’d almost swear he could make out the square keep and its curtain walls, high atop the jutting promontory.

Of the wild-haired, blazing-eyed siren was no sign.

He should be glad.

Instead, his jaw tightened and he found himself narrowing his eyes even more, searching the rock-strewn shore for a flash of her fiery-red hair.

“Have done, you fool,” he snarled at himself beneath
his breath, now wishing he’d joined his men in airing a few skirts at the Saucy Wench.

Had he indulged—and for some inexplicable reason, he hadn’t been in the mood—he’d now be watching for Laddie’s Isle’s landing beach instead of a maid of mist who likely didn’t even exist.

He frowned again, tried to tamp down his irritation.

He’d gone mad, for sure. Women had no place in his mind just now.

“The tales were true, eh?” Big Hughie Alesone climbed up on the prow-platform, his steps surprisingly light for such a giant of a man. A tireless oarsman and even better with a sword, he was one of Roag’s most trusted warriors. “This is the last corner of the Hebrides, perhaps the end of the world.”

He came to stand beside Roag, hooked his thumbs beneath his sword belt. “I’d no’ have believed your isle would prove as blighted as we heard, just a rocky spit o’ land, home to nae more than wild winds and stronger currents. It’s a cold place, dark and godforsaken.”

“So it is,” Roag agreed. “My gods would love it for just those reasons.”

He could, too.

And that was troubling. He had reason not to fall under the island’s spell. After all, he wouldn’t be there a day longer than was required of him. Duty sent him to Laddie’s Isle, and the same responsibilities would call him away again when his business was done.

“You didnae come up here to tell me what I already ken.” He slanted a look at Big Hughie, well aware that the oversized Highlander always skirted what was really on his mind. “What’s bothering you?”

Proving Roag had guessed right, Big Hughie rocked back on his heels, his ruddy face turning an even brighter shade of red. “It was what Conn said,” he admitted after some moments. “About the maid o’ mist he saw.”

“There was nae such female.” Roag hoped he spoke true. “Conn has Erse blood. The Irish aye see sprites and faeries everywhere. They have that from their ancestors and cannae help it.”

Big Hughie shook his head. “I dinnae think so.”

“Say you?” Roag cocked a brow.

“Aye.” This time Big Hughie nodded. “I saw her, too.”

“Well, she’s no’ there now.” Roag didn’t know why, but the strongest feeling told him that nothing in his life would ever be the same again if she was. As he couldn’t allow such an upheaval, he looked again at the steep-sided little isle, relieved to see nothing on the rocky shore but seabirds and the shattering waves.

“She could’ve gone somewhere else.” Big Hughie spoke what Roag didn’t want to consider.

“If that is so, and we find her, we’ll send her away.” That, Roag could do.

He had ways of seeing his will enforced.

Every man onboard the
Valkyrie
knew it. So did many others. When he wanted something, no one and nothing could keep it from him.

Turning to his friend, Roag placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “There’s a fine north wind blowing.” He used the code that would alert Big Hughie he was about to say something bitter earnest.

His own face sobering, Big Hughie glanced at the drifting mist. “Is there, indeed?” he returned, in kind.

“Aye, and it’ll worsen before the day is o’er.” Roag
tightened his grip on Big Hughie’s shoulder, releasing him after speaking the final phrase.

Big Hughie stilled, waiting.

Roag was direct. “There’s no place on this mission for womanizing. We left such pleasures at the Saucy Wench. Any man who forgets himself, should a female cross his path, will soon be sorry.

“Go now, and remind your shipmates. Make sure they also remember my name is Donell MacDonnell.” Roag nodded once, watched the big man return to the oar-banks.

Alone again, he cracked his knuckles and then lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. Already suffering a hellacious ale-head, he could feel an even worse throbbing starting in his temples.

Donell MacDonnell was the only part of this journey that soured him.

He was Roag the Bear and aye would be.

But as a member of the King’s Fenris Guard, a secret band of highly trained warriors prized for their fearlessness and loyalty, he was oath-bound to embark on whatever mission the crown gave him.

This time that meant assuming the identity of a long-absent, newly dead Hebridean chieftain who’d also served the King. For years, the MacDonnell had passed on observances about the activities of unruly, disloyal island clans. Information gleaned thanks to the strategic location of Laddie’s Isle, which made its keeper privy to all ships passing through these waters and to their business, often shady dealings that the King wished reported to him.

Regrettably, the rough-hewn and querulous MacDonnell hadn’t been as discreet as his position demanded.
He’d landed in a Manx dungeon cell where he’d wallowed for years, then drowned off the Island of Man when he’d finally escaped.

After three of the King’s royal ships had been attacked and plunged to watery graves far beneath the waves, Roag had been charged with the same duties as the late Donell MacDonnell.

Except that he was expected to do more than note and report disturbances.

He was here to end them.

And he would.

Of all the Fenris, he worked best in chaos, sauntering in like the bear he was named after and overpowering any opposition with the sheer power of his indomitable presence. His size and muscle also didn’t hurt.

His loyalty was unbending.

Roag loved the tight and oath-bound brotherhood named after Fenris the Wolf in Norse mythology. Fenris was a troublemaker, believed to be the son of Loki, the trickster. Established by King Robert III’s brother, Alexander Stewart, the notorious Wolf of Badenoch, the Fenris Guard’s men were troublemakers equal to their legendary Nordic namesake.

They did the King’s dirty work, plying their trade where more fastidious men wouldn’t venture.

Roag and his crew were more daring than most Fenris.

But they had a weakness for women.

Roag was also susceptible to shapely ankles and well-rounded hips that swayed invitingly. High, full breasts that bounced and jiggled, and like any hot-blooded man, he couldn’t get enough of the dark, more intimate shadows that beckoned betwixt a comely wench’s parted
thighs. The lass on the rocks offered all that and more. Even as she’d scowled across the water at him, clearly wishing him ill, her boldness had attracted him.