Claimed by the Highlander (7 page)

Fear, mostly, thanks to their new leader.

She ventured more deeply into the hall and roamed through the crowd. Having spent the day tending to the wounded on both sides, she was physically and emotionally spent. For those who had survived the battle, their injuries were mostly light. Some were here this evening, patched up, but still ready to drink and make merry, although one clansman—Douglas, her old friend—had suffered a painful end when the surgeon tried to remove a musket ball from his shoulder.

Hence, the music and tempting aroma of the feast did little to improve Gwendolen’s mood. She knew she must hide her grief, however, for the people of her clan would need her confidence and encouragement in the coming days.

She spotted her mother on the far side of the hall, looking radiant in a sage-colored gown that highlighted her auburn hair. Gwendolen was at least pleased to see that Onora was wearing her best jewels, which meant Angus had kept his word and not deprived her of her status.

Gwendolen glanced around the hall for her future husband, whom she had not seen since the morning, but recognized only the darkly handsome warrior who had escorted her to her father’s chamber—the one named Lachlan. He had caught sight of Onora, however, and set out on a determined path toward her from across the room.

Gwendolen hurried to join her mother, and like the third point of a triangle, she arrived just as they all connected in the center.

“And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Onora asked, when Lachlan handed her a goblet of wine he had picked up from a passing servant.

“I am Angus’s cousin,” he said with a heavy Scottish brogue. “Lachlan MacDonald, Laird of War. My father, before me, was also Kinloch’s Laird of War, cut down in battle when your husband invaded here two years ago.” He gazed at her with a masculine, but somehow playful, arrogance.

Gwendolen’s mother, also playful and never daunted, awarded him a dazzling smile. “What an honor to meet such a brave and heroic man. I am charmed.” She held out her hand.

He bent forward and kissed it, never taking his eyes off hers, and Gwendolen felt rather invisible.

“You have soft lips, sir.”

“And your eyes, madam, are as elegant as your jewels.”

Gwendolen stepped forward to interrupt. “We met earlier this morning,” she said.

He straightened and turned to her. “Aye. Miss MacEwen.”

“And where is our great conquering laird this evening?” she asked. “I hope he will soon grace us with his presence.”

He smirked at her blatant show of sarcasm. “As do I, because I have no interest in occupying his chair this evening. I have other plans.”

Onora touched a finger to the brooch at his shoulder, and adjusted his tartan. “And what might those plans be, sir?”

“Don’t know yet, madam. I’m just now getting reacquainted with the lay of the land.”

“Well.” Her eyes sparkled. “If you need help finding your way around the castle, you must come to me first. I would be delighted to assist. If there is
any
way I can be of use to you.
Any
way at all…”

Gwendolen cleared her throat. “If you will excuse us please, Lachlan. I would like to have a word with my mother.”

He bowed to them, and backed away toward a group of warriors who were knocking their pewter tankards together, spilling ale onto the floor, tipping their heads back to guzzle.

Gwendolen led her mother to a quiet corner. “Must you idly flirt with every last member of the enemy clan? Can you not behave yourself for just one night?”

Onora shook her head. “First of all, I never flirt idly. That one was Laird of War. Now tell me what happened this morning when the ferocious Lion locked you in your father’s chamber. I heard it was difficult. Are you all right?”

“I am fine, Mother. I spent the day tending to the wounded.”

Onora led her deeper into the shadows. “I don’t care what you did all day. I want to know what happened in the bedchamber. You can tell me anything, darling. In fact, tell me everything. What happened?”

Gwendolen looked around to ensure no one was listening, then leaned close and spoke in a whisper. “It was difficult, indeed. He used the threat of sex to bring me under control and trick me into submission, because he knew I did not want it.”

Onora drew back slightly. “Only the threat of it?”

“Aye. Well … He did toss me onto the bed, and he joined me there, and took … certain … liberties.” Her body trembled at the mere memory of it.

“You didn’t try to fight him off?”

“Of course I did, but he’s very strong.”

“Mm. I did observe that.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Aye. He visited your bedchamber this morning to have a brief word with me after he saw you. He came through the door, bold as a bull, and informed me that he was the new laird. He then told me to return to my own apartments, and that I could keep my jewels.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. He walked out before I had a chance to speak. He didn’t seem interested in hearing what I had to say anyway. He was very impatient. Appeared to be in a great hurry.”

A hush fell over the crowd just then, as the great Lion entered the hall and took a seat in her father’s chair at the head table, which was draped with a white cloth and adorned with pewter bowls of fruit and flowers. A servant brought a jewel-encrusted goblet of wine and set it down in front of him. He picked it up and reclined back in the chair.

Onora watched him with interest. “I learned today that he was banished to the Hebrides for the past two years, and while he was there, he had an oracle for a lover.”

“An
oracle
?” Though Gwendolen did not wish to know anything about his past lovers, she could not deny that this particular piece of information fascinated her. “Was she genuine? Did she predict things?”

“Apparently so. She told him he would succeed in his quest to regain control of Kinloch, and that his time would come, that he would achieve all his dreams. You know—the sort of thing that encourages a man’s passions.” Onora twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Perhaps
I
should call myself an oracle.”

Gwendolen ignored the silly remark. “Where is this oracle now? Please do not tell me that she followed him here.”

“No. He left her behind in the Hebrides. From what I understand, she was a crafty little witch. And I mean that in the worst possible way.” Onora sipped her wine and watched Angus over the rim of her glass. “How was he, when he came to you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was he a good lover?”

Gwendolen sighed with discontent. “How would I know? It was the first time anything like that ever happened to me, so I am in no position to make such an assessment. And can we please talk about something else? The man is my enemy. I do not care if he is a good lover or not. It won’t matter.”

Her mother took another sip of wine. “I think you may discover that it matters very much. Even more so,
because
he is your enemy.”

Gwendolen watched her future husband converse with a MacEwen warrior, who stood just below the dais, seeking to make a good impression, no doubt. “I don’t understand you.”

“No, clearly you do not, but you will eventually, and you may come looking for my advice—at which time you will have a world of wisdom at your fingertips. Then we shall see who brings whom under control. You may be surprised to discover you have the upper hand.” Onora raised the goblet to her lips again and watched Angus carefully while she took a long, slow drink. “At least he’s handsome. Imagine if he had the face of a boar.”

“Mother.”

She turned her sparkling eyes to Gwendolen. “Promise that you will at least try to charm him. You know what they say—you can catch more flies with honey…”

“I don’t want to catch him. I want him to leave. Which is why we must send word to Murdoch and tell him what has occurred. The sooner he returns, the better. If he could come with an army…”

“Mm,” her mother said. “I suppose that is the responsible thing to do.”

Gwendolen looked around the room with dismay. “Sometimes I wonder why I am so devoted to you.”

Onora beamed a smile at her. “Because I am your mother, and you adore me.”

Ten servants entered the hall carrying platters of warm bread, fresh out of the oven, which they placed on the long trestle tables. The hum of conversation and laughter in the room died away as the clansmen and women moved to find seats at the benches.

“I suppose it’s time we joined our enemies,” Gwendolen said. She made a move to leave, but her mother caught her arm.

“Wait.” She spoke in a more serious tone. “You should know, Gwendolen, that Angus has ordered his men to refrain from helping themselves to any of our women, especially those who lost husbands in the battle today. The women are all to be given time to grieve. Only then will the MacDonald clansmen be permitted to make wives out of them.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged. “I thought you might like to know. And perhaps such information about your future husband will make it easier for you to do what you must do. The first time is never easy.”

She regarded her mother with understanding and a whisper of quiet gratitude.

“I appreciate what you are trying to do,” she said, “but I don’t think anything is going to make this less difficult. Let us just pray that it is over as quickly as possible.”

*   *   *

Angus leaned back in his chair when a servant came to refill his goblet. His attention was diverted, however, by the image of his future wife crossing the hall to join him at the table.

He marveled at his unexpected good luck—that the woman he’d claimed for a bride did not have the face of a turnip. Even in that ugly gray frock, she outshone every woman in the room, for there was something intangible and strangely ethereal about her beauty, something radiant that burned in those keen brown eyes. Her complexion was ivory-white, while her thick, sable hair was an exotic and striking contrast of darkness. To top it all off, those cherry-red lips were supple and full, and the effect of her presence as a whole was enough to make his head spin.

But as he watched her approach—and felt a carnal urge to rise up from the table and drag her by the hand to his bed—he began to wonder if he had been cursed, rather than blessed, for he had no interest in becoming infatuated with anyone, much less a wife.

He had seen what romantic obsessions did to men. He had watched his closest friend, Duncan MacLean, lay down his sword and give up his warrior life for the mad love of a woman.

An Englishwoman, at that. Angus had been so frustrated by the affair—and by his own inability to talk sense into Duncan—that he’d gone a little mad himself. Mad with rage and unthinkable treachery. Eventually mad with shame.

“You look lost in thought,” Lachlan said, sitting down beside him and tearing off a hunk of the warm, crusty bread. “Can’t blame you. She’s a prize, that one.”

Gwendolen stopped to speak to an older woman in the crowd.

Angus picked up his goblet and frowned. “Aye, she’s fetchin’, to be sure, and has the fire of a fighting Scot in her blood, but make no mistake about it. The real prize is Kinloch.”

Lachlan leaned back in his chair. “Aye, but what is Kinloch, if not for its people? Without them, it’s just stones and mortar.”

Angus regarded him irritably. “Stones and mortar, Lachlan? Were your brains addled during the battle this morning? Without these walls, there is no home. There is nothing.”

He could testify to that. He had been two years banished, living in the cold, damp outer reaches of the Western Isles in a thatched hut with Raonaid—another outcast like himself. A gifted devil of a woman who had been banished for her unearthly talents, and had no other place to go. The entire time, he’d felt like he was bobbing about in a frigid sea with no sign of land or even a mucky bottom to set his feet upon. He had never felt more lost or nonexistent. He had not known it was possible to feel like a living ghost.

He took another sip of wine and watched Gwendolen over the rim of the goblet. She and her mother—another dangerous beauty—were still chattering with the woman, who wiped a tear from her cheek. Gwendolen offered her a folded kerchief from inside her sleeve.

“Your future mother-in-law seems like a champion vixen,” Lachlan said in a low voice, leaning close. “You ought to keep a close eye on her. I learned today that she took her dead husband’s steward to bed on the day of the funeral, and has been pulling the man’s strings ever since.”

“Aye, but there’s more,” Angus replied. “She’s been having him in her bed for over a year, ruling Kinloch from behind closed doors the entire time. Her husband was a puppet, too.”

Lachlan sipped his wine. “I confess I am not surprised, having just met her. Does the daughter know?”

Angus studied Gwendolen from across the room. “I cannot be sure. It’s difficult to imagine she didn’t know what was going on. She’s clever and strong-willed. Yet she seems too virtuous to condone such a thing.”

He thought about the softness of her skin beneath his roaming hands, and how she had responded to his touch with such repressed desire. He wondered if she was like her mother, and it was all a clever act to make him believe he’d succeeded in conquering her—to give him a false sense of power and confidence—or if she had truly been aroused by his kiss and would prove malleable in the future.