Claimed by the Highlander (6 page)

He regarded her with increasing interest. “There are a dozen ways I could have you on your back in an instant, lass, whether we’re married or not, and none of them will be gentle or chivalrous—so I suggest you mind that sharp tongue of yours.”

She turned to the window, feeling desperate again. “Haven’t you had enough violence for one day? Besides, wouldn’t it be more pleasant for you if I were willing, and eager?”

God help her, she was scraping the bottom of the barrel now.

He strode forward, slowly. “Now
that
sounds intriguing. How eager would you be? Give me an example.”

He was too clever, too intuitive, for he must have known she didn’t have the slightest clue how to convey “eagerness” once he began the dreaded deflowering. The question knocked her off balance completely.

“Come now,” he said. “Don’t be shy. How eager will you be when I begin to unlace you?”

She wet her lips and felt her insides begin to tremble again. “That depends on how merciful you are.”

She was rather proud of that shrewd deflection of the question.

“And how gifted an actress
you
are.” He strode closer, his heavy broadsword bouncing lightly against his hip, and she had to steel herself against the daunting impact of his approach. He was tall and mighty, and the perfection of his golden features had a way of distracting her from his more degenerate intentions. She found herself gaping up at those soft full lips and intense blue eyes, and wondering how such perfection was even possible in the human form—villainous or otherwise.

“I’ll be frank with you,” he said, touching her cheek with the back of a finger. “Merciful or not, I’ll be having you in my bed, so you may as well part with any foolish hopes that I’ll be easily manipulated or deterred by your precious innocence, or your feminine charms, bountiful as they may be. I won’t be sympathetic to any begging or pleading, either. You’ll not weaken or outwit me, nor will you soften my heart with these futile attempts at distraction. There’s not really much of a heart there to work with, you see, so don’t bother to waste your time. Just submit, and accept that this is the way things are. I’ll not be rough or cruel to you—as long as you remember not to cross me—and you may even find you enjoy certain things.”

“Certain things? Like what, precisely? Your knife at my throat each night?”

Something flickered in his eyes—something she had not seen before—and she wondered if he was amused.

“That’s a bit dramatic,” he said. “I think you might be making too much of my weapons. But don’t be troubled, lass. I’ll put them away when I make love to you.”

“Make love? Is that what we’re going to call it?”

“Would you prefer I use another turn of phrase? I’d be more than happy to, though you don’t strike me as the type who likes to say ‘shag’ or ‘f—”

“Enough! Please!” She backed away, and stumbled over her feet. “Let’s just not … Let’s not call it anything. I’d prefer not to speak of it at all.”

His eyes glimmered with renewed interest as he followed her across the room. “Why not?”

“Because there’s no way to speak about it without being lewd or vulgar.”

He strolled toward the bed in a predatory swagger, and leaned a broad shoulder against the bedpost. “I beg to differ. Some men can be anything
but
vulgar when seducing a comely lass like you. I’m not one of them, but if you like, I could try to romance you with a sonnet.”

“Now you’re mocking me.”

“Aye.” His eyes were cold and forbidding. “I told you before, I’m not the romantic sort.”

She lifted her chin. “As if
you
would know a sonnet, anyway.”

“Mm, you’re right. On top of everything else, I’m an illiterate brute. All I know how to do is conquer. And plunder, plunder, plunder.”

Her vision began to blur as he strode toward her. She backed up and said, “If I could, I would summon my father from the grave to run you through. And he would do it, too. This was his bedchamber, you know, and he was a great warrior.”

The closer he got, the more desperate she became.

“I’m sure he was, and I admire your devotion to him, lass, but it’s discipline that wins the day, not ghosts.”

“And how do you plan to discipline me? Will you throw me onto the bed like the wild, savage beast that you are, and ravish me against my will?”

“Are you
trying
to get me excited?”

She sucked in a breath. “Or will you beat me, and keep me locked up forever?”

He backed her up against the wall and let his hungry gaze travel from the top of her head, slowly, all the way down to her toes. “Neither holds much appeal to me at the moment. I’ve had enough fighting for one day. All I want is your soft naked body under my own, and I’m surprised we’re still standing here discussing it. You ought to be proud of yourself, lass, for causing such a delay.”

Her hands tightened into fists. “Why don’t you find yourself another woman to satisfy your lust? I am not willing.”

“You’re a bit of a shrew, aren’t you?”

His lips brushed over her cheek. He was so close, she could smell the masculine fragrance of his skin.

“If it displeases you, then yes, I am.”

Without the slightest warning, he scooped her up into his arms and tossed her onto the bed. Before she could utter a single word of outrage, he was on top of her, pressing her into the feathery softness of the mattress—so deep, she thought she’d never find her way out.

“Maybe I should just take you now and complete the invasion,” he said in a low voice as he slid his hand up under her skirts to caress her thigh. “Why wait for our wedding night?”

“But we had an agreement. In the hall … You promised…”

“Maybe I was just toying with you.” He brushed his nose over the tip of hers, then across her cheek to her ear, while his broad palm slid under her backside and pulled her hips tight up against him.

Gwendolen remembered her earlier vow to be brave, no matter what he did to her, and tried to focus on some dignified response to this sudden brutish pillaging of her innocence. “I may be forced to submit my body to you,” she said, “but I will never submit my soul.”

He laughed in her ear. “Enough with the theatricals, lass. Do you know how comical you are? It’s like something out of a bad play. What have you been reading lately?”

She was both infuriated and mortified. Every part of her body seemed to be throbbing and flaming with unbidden heat, and she felt completely exposed. “It was not my intention to provide you with entertainment.”

“And yet, I am spellbound. If I didn’t have to hold you down, I’d be applauding your performance, and throwing roses up onto your stage.”

His mouth found hers, and the intimacy of the connection was too much for her to take. Her lips, burning and aching, soon gave way to his plunging advance and softened to the irresistible stroke of his tongue.

Oh, how would she ever navigate her way through this sacrifice?

Although “sacrifice” was becoming less and less the proper word to describe what was happening here, for she was floating away rather quickly on an intoxicating haze of sensation.

He laid soft, wet kisses across her eyelids and along her forehead, and inched his body upward, thrusting against her with smooth, gentle undulations that reminded her of the sea. A moment later, the kisses found their way to the sensitive, tingling flesh at her neck. His tongue pushed into the hollow of her throat.

Gwendolen focused on her breathing, working hard to remain resistant—or at least give the appearance of indifference.

She looked up at the crimson canopy overhead and chastised herself for this swift surrender, when she had been so determined to fight and die an honorable death today, alongside her clansmen who had battled so valiantly. Instead, she was melting like warm sugar cake in her conqueror’s arms.

She told herself that it was only because she had never been kissed before today, and she lacked the experience necessary to use sex for power, as her mother would have done—quite effectively—had she been here in Gwendolen’s place.

On the other hand, she had a feeling that her mother might have fared no better. She would probably be melting like warm sugar cake, too.

All at once, Onora’s face flashed in Gwendolen’s eyes. “Please, I must ask you one thing,” she said breathlessly. “Is my mother safe? Tell me you have not harmed her.”

Angus kissed the side of her neck and thrust his hips. “How badly do you want to know?”

“Badly,” she replied. “I promise, if you tell me that she is alive and well, I will not cross you again. I will do whatever you ask.”

A smug grin graced his lips as he kissed the edges of her neckline. “Ah, lassie—you’ve shown me twice today that you have a very soft and pretty Achilles’ heel. Just the sort of thing a ruthless warrior looks for in a situation like this. A chink in the armor, a crack in the gate…”

“What are you saying?”

His lips brushed over hers. “You make it almost too easy. You’re taking all the fun out of it.”

“Fun for
you,
perhaps. Not for me.”

The Lion rose up on both arms and looked down at her in the shimmering morning light that was streaming in through the windows.

“You and your precious, holy virtue,” he said. “You really ought to give it up.”

Gwendolen struggled to think straight. “Wait … What do you mean, a chink in my armor?”

He kissed her on the mouth again, and never had she imagined a man’s lips and body could evoke such delirious sensation. It was like drinking liquid fire, or falling from a cloud.

“What did you mean?” she repeated, and he rolled to the side.

He rested his cheek on a hand, and his eyes chilled over with frost. “What I was trying to say, lassie, is that if you cross me one more time, it’s not
you
I’ll be locking up. It will be your beloved mother.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He spoke with malice. “You’re too easy to read, and far too self-sacrificing. I believe you would have died for your clan if I’d pushed you too far in the hall. And look at you now, playing the part of a willing bed partner, opening to me like a soft spring blossom, when we both know you’d rather shoot me dead than let me slide my hand up under your skirts.”

“No,” she replied ridiculously, “that’s not entirely true.”

He slid off the bed and tucked his shirt back into his kilt, then pulled the knife from his boot and pointed the sharp blade at her.

“We had an agreement,” he said, “and I’ll honor my word. I’ll not claim your virginity until we are wed, and your mother will have her jewels and sit at our table. I’ll give equal rights to all MacEwens who pledge allegiance to me tonight, as long as you hold true to your end of the bargain.”

Gwendolen leaned up on both elbows and struggled to control the ragged pace of her breathing. “And what did I promise … exactly?”

Lord help her, she couldn’t remember. Her brain was addled. Her thoughts had been stomped on, like grapes to wine. She felt completely inebriated.

“You gave me your word that you would be amiable toward me from this day forward. You will not defy me, nor will you resist or dispute my authority over Kinloch. You will support my rule, both publicly and privately. And when your brother returns, your loyalty will rest with
me
, as your husband. Not him.”

And this meant he would not bed her? He would not force himself upon her? It was the only condition she seemed able to focus upon.

“Are we agreed?” he asked.

She quickly nodded.

“Good. Obedient at last. Now get your skinny bones out of that bed, woman. You’re needed in the bailey. There are wounded men to attend to.” With that he turned and walked out the door.

Gwendolen sank back down onto the bed and exhaled sharply. He had read her like a book just now, and used all her fears and weaknesses against her. Clearly, he was not an ignorant brute. He was clever and cunning, and had a quick mind for strategic warfare, even in the bedroom.

But she, too, was an intelligent woman. Her father, God rest his soul, had encouraged her to use her brain. She would therefore spend the rest of the day thinking about what he had shown her. He, too, would be a book she would read—and by tonight, she would have him deciphered and decoded, and then she would begin her own strategic battle for survival.

Chapter Four

The Great Hall that evening pulsed with the laughter of men, underscored by the spirited music from a fiddle player who wandered about the room, his bow dancing merrily across the strings. The colorful gowns of the MacEwen women lent a festival atmosphere to the gathering, and the aroma of fresh bread and seasoned roast mutton, with the promise of sweet pastries for dessert, made it seem as if there were something to celebrate.

Not so for Gwendolen, however. She entered the hall in a plain gown of gray silk, feeling as if she were descending into the searing hot flames of Satan’s dining room.

All the MacEwen heraldry had been taken down. There was nothing left of it, except for what was carved into the stones over the hearth. Everyone seemed happy enough on the surface, she supposed, but for the MacEwens, this smiling civility toward their invaders was nothing but a mask they wore to cover their fear and loathing.