Claimed by the Highlander (4 page)

“Lure him to my bed?” Gwendolen shoved her mother’s hands away. “He has laid siege to our home. I will not simply lie back and wait for him to lay siege to my body, as well. I will go to the hall and meet him there, with dignity, as Father would have done.”

“And say what?”

“I will negotiate the terms of our surrender.”

Onora scoffed. “You are forgetting that we have already been defeated. Surrender is no longer an option. He will laugh at you.”

Gwendolen backed away, then realized that she did, in fact, have some power. “That is where you are wrong, Mother. He wants something from me—a child—and I shall inform him that
I
will not be conquered quite so easily as this castle. More importantly, if I can buy us time, there is a chance that Murdoch will return and restore our freedom.”

“Gwendolen!”

Heart beating erratically in her chest, she walked out and shut the door behind her, then quickly made her way down the curved staircase, ignoring her mother’s outraged calls, which echoed through the vaulted stone passageways.

As she approached the hall, her stomach turned somersaults. She was about to confront and challenge a ruthless, battle-seasoned warrior, who thought nothing of ramming through castle gates and slaughtering entire armies before breakfast.

Physically, she was no match for him. That was certain. He was mighty and strapping, and he could slaughter her too in a single heartbeat, if he was so inclined. But no matter what happened, she would not show her fear. She was the daughter of a Highland chief, and she had the allegiance of her people. She would face him on equal ground.

Thankfully, the hall was empty when she arrived, which awarded her a few minutes to collect her thoughts and decide how, exactly, she was going to address Angus Bradach MacDonald. She paused just inside the arched entry, behind the dais, and turned her eyes to the impressive display of MacEwen heraldry. Heavy silk tapestries draped the walls, flags and banners hung from the rafters, and their family crest had recently been carved into the stonework.

She glanced toward the heavy chair that her father had occupied until recently. When he had presided over this hall, feasts and celebrations were the order of the day. Laughter, music, and poetry filled the nights with culture and amusement. There was no threat of war or tyranny. He was a good man, a strong and fair leader, but all of that would soon change if she did not stand up to this new conqueror. Tonight, there would be subjugation, forced oaths, and peril for those who refused to submit.

Unless, of course, she could exert some influence, however small …

She stepped up onto the dais and approached the empty chair.
Help me to be brave, Father, for I wish to do my duty for the MacEwens.

Her prayer was interrupted, unfortunately, by the sound of footsteps entering from the bailey. Gwendolen glanced up. Her pulse quickened as she beheld her enemy, Angus the Lion, at the far end of the hall.

Not yet aware of her presence, he paused just inside. He looked up at the highest peaks of the ceiling, then his cool gaze moved along the string of MacEwen banners, hung from the wide wooden beams.

Gwendolen observed the finer details of his appearance—the dark kilt and tartan draped over his shoulder and pinned with a heavy silver brooch that had been polished to a brilliant sheen. He was an enormous man. That much she already knew. But up close, she could see that his hands were large, as well, which was especially distressing, to say nothing of the weapons he carried. In addition to the shield on his back and the heavy claymore belted at his waist, two pistols were tucked into the belt, and a powder horn was slung across his chest. A dirk was sheathed in his boot.

She looked more closely at his face, and felt rather anxious.

It was a face both rugged and beautiful—flawlessly proportioned, with a full sensuous mouth and a fine, patrician nose. His eyes were pale blue, as clear as ice on a winter lake, and yet they smoldered with fire. A curious commotion began inside her—an unusual trepidation, a shiver of heat that spread to her toes. She had to work hard to control it.

The great Lion studied the tapestries, the walls, and even the stones in the hearth, then his big hand went to the hilt of his broadsword, and his eyes narrowed in on her.

Before today, Gwendolen had not known what it felt like to be held in the gaze of a man so breathtaking. She had to focus on her sense of balance in order to remain upright on her feet.

Angus, on the other hand, appeared wholly relaxed, though there was something intense and frightening about the way he looked at her. A lingering bloodlust from battle still coursed through his body, no doubt.

If she was going to get through this, she would have to remember that he wanted something from her. She was not entirely without power.

His hand still resting on the hilt of his sword, he crossed the length of the hall with menacing determination. Her heart galloped inside her chest. By the time he reached the dais, she was feeling the same wild and reckless exhilaration she had felt on the rooftop when she challenged him with her small sword, and declared herself brave enough to fight him.

“Get down off there,” he said.

“Why? So you can look down on me?”

“Aye. Your family stole my home. You are thieves. The whole lot of you.”

Her body raged, and she worried suddenly that she might faint from all the mayhem.

“You look pale, lassie. Are you ill?”

“No. I am fine,” she told him, until she thought better of it. “I beg your pardon. I wish to retract that. I am not fine. I am disgusted.”

He took a step forward and scoffed. “Disgusted? By
me
?”

“Aye. Did you expect otherwise?”

He stared at her with threatening resolve. “It’s not the response I was anticipating, but it matters not. This castle is mine now. I’ve claimed you as my wife. Those are the facts.”

She inhaled slowly in order to gather her wits about her. He was disturbingly succinct and to the point, with no consideration for politeness.

“And what am I supposed to do with those facts?” she asked. “Call everyone in and prance about the hall with delight?”

“Nay, there won’t be any public prancing, lassie. Whether you like it or not, I’ll be having you in my bed tonight—and
that
we’ll do in private.”

She took a deep breath, working hard to calm her rising hostility. “So soon?”

“Not soon enough, if you must know. I didn’t expect to be wedding such a beauty.”

Gwendolen laughed. “You think to get what you want by flattering me?”

The corner of his mouth curled up into a sinister grin. “I already got what I wanted, lass. Don’t need to flatter anyone.”

“And what was it, exactly, that you wanted?”

“Was it not obvious when I broke down the castle gate? I wanted Kinloch, and now I have it.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course you do.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment or two. Gwendolen was fighting to maintain a semblance of composure and dignity, while he seemed quite unabashedly distracted by the curve of her breasts and hips.

“Did I not ask you to get down off there?” he repeated, while tilting his head to the side. “Or do I need to come up and haul you down like a sack of turnips? I’ll oblige you, if that’s what you wish, but I’m weary from battle and in no mood for hauling vegetables. So get down off there, woman. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Gwendolen took careful note of the threatening message of command in his voice, and approached the edge of the dais. She stepped down, squared her shoulders, and stared up at him. He looked her over from head to foot, then leaped up onto the dais and strolled from one side to the other, as if he were taking measurements.

Gwendolen remained silent while he seated himself in her father’s chair and lounged back comfortably, his long muscular legs stretched out in front of him. “Home at last,” he said.

Again, he looked up at the MacEwen heraldry. He sat without speaking, and she knew he was pondering the future. Or perhaps recalling the past.

She watched his face for some insight into his mood and intentions. Sitting there like a sprawling lion, he appeared in absolute control, with no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he was now Laird of Kinloch, and she was to be his obedient wife and servant.

He was in for a rude awakening.

“Where is your brother, Murdoch?” he asked. “Why is he not here to defend Kinloch and protect his people?”

“He traveled abroad to visit Rome and educate himself. He believed a strong leader should be enlightened and knowledgeable about the world—an aspiration which I doubt
you
would understand. He left before my father died.”

“But with your father’s death, why has he not returned?”

She regarded Angus with steady eyes. “I am not certain he knows of it. We have dispatched a letter to him, of course, but have no way of knowing if he has received it. I am hopeful, however, that he will return any day. Perhaps unexpectedly.”

It was an intentional strike at the Lion’s arrogance. She wished him to know that his victory this morning may have seemed effortless, but the MacEwens would not continue to be easy prey. He should be on his guard.

Angus rested an elbow on the arm of the chair. “Will he be difficult?”

“I hope so.”

He studied her with careful scrutiny. “I suppose the real question is whether or not
you
will be difficult.”

“Oh, definitely.”

His brow furrowed with displeasure, and she regretted the brash reply, when she had come here to negotiate in a civilized manner. She half expected him to rise up out of the chair and show her the back of his hand. He continued, however, to sit calmly, relaxed, but with a focused expression that made her feel as if she were standing before him naked. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

“Do you understand, lass, that I have already claimed you as my wife?”

“I heard as much when you shouted my marriage proposal from the rooftops, instead of asking me directly.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Do you wish me to get down on bended knee?”

“Not particularly.”

He nodded, as if he were reaching a number of conclusions about her character and temperament in these moments, based on her replies.

He sat back. “Good, because I’m not the romantic sort.”

“You don’t say. I am astonished.”

There was a fluttering in the rafters above, and his eyes lifted. He caught sight of the tiny bird that had been nesting in the hall for as long as she could remember. It flew out the open arched doorway to the bailey.

“No one has been able to get rid of that bird,” she told him. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. Or maybe the poor defenseless creature has just realized what calamity has befallen her home, and has finally flown the coop.”

“We’ll see,” he replied, rising to his feet, as if he had grown bored of the conversation and had much more important matters to attend to.

She hastened to step forward before he could dismiss her. “All that aside,” she blurted out, “I would like to negotiate the terms of my surrender.”

His eyes settled upon her again and he spoke in a patronizing tone. “Your surrender…”

“Aye. I told you I would resist you, and I will, in every sense of the word, unless this situation can be resolved to my liking.”

For a long moment he stared at her, as if he could barely comprehend what he’d just heard. A dark scowl passed across his features, and yet there was something else … Was it possible that he was enjoying her insolence?

“To
your
liking,” he repeated.

“Aye.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw, and any hint of interest vanished, as she realized she had struck a very bad note. It was obvious from the rising tide of fury in his eyes that he was not accustomed to hearing such demands from people, much less a woman he had just claimed as his possession. He was used to being feared.

He stepped down from the dais and approached her. She took a step back. It was one thing to speak to a conquering warlord seated in a chair, ten feet away. It was quite another to be standing at eye level with his chest—so close, she could see the bloodstains in the individual fibers of his shirt, and smell the fresh aroma of his sweat.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her eyes.

He was glaring down at her with blistering antagonism. “I’ll hear your terms now,” he said.

Thankful that his sword was still sheathed in the scabbard and she was still in possession of her head, Gwendolen cleared her throat. “I want you to honor the conditions you offered just now to the people of my clan, but I have something else to add.”

“Speak, then.”

She wet her dry lips. “Those who must forfeit their homes, but choose to stay and pledge allegiance to you, will be given compensation from the Kinloch treasury. I understand that there will be no compensation given to those who leave, but I must be assured that if that is what they choose, they will be permitted to leave freely, without fear of death or retaliation by your warriors.”