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Authors: Julianne MacLean

Tags: #Romance

Claimed by the Highlander (9 page)

BOOK: Claimed by the Highlander
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She mulled over his reply. “Were you in love with her yourself?”


God,
no! Did you not hear a word I said earlier?”

Gwendolen supposed she had become somewhat flustered since she sat down. “Pardon me. I wasn’t thinking.”

He picked up his goblet and held it on his lap. “I despised her, if you must know. If I’d had my way, she wouldn’t have survived long enough to bewitch him into marrying her.”

“Good heavens, would you have killed her?” The horror poured out of Gwendolen like a flash flood.

A muscle clenched at his jaw, and he spoke with a dark and quiet foreboding. “What do
you
think?”

Gwendolen leaned back in her chair. “That is why you betrayed this friend? Because he chose her, over you?”

He glanced the other way. “Aye.”

“I can hardly blame him,” she said. “Love should always triumph over evil.”

Remarkably unperturbed, he leaned very close. “You think I’m evil, do you?”

“You said yourself that you would burn in hell for your actions.”

“That I did. And I’m certain I will.”

A fiddler passed in front of them. He sang a lively tune in Gaelic, distracting them for a moment, then moved on down the table.

“Did you ever try to reconcile with your friend?” Gwendolen asked, reaching for her goblet.

“Nay.”

“Why not?”

“Because I still think he was wrong.”

She pushed her plate away. “Is he still with the woman you warned him against?”

“Aye.”

“And are they happy?”

He tapped the tip of his finger impatiently on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I haven’t seen either of them for two years.”

The fiddler finished the tune, and Angus rose to his feet. A hush swept over the room like a breezy chill, for everyone knew it was time for all MacEwens to pledge their oath of allegiance to their new laird.

Feeling a ripple of apprehension, Gwendolen sat back and considered all that she had learned about her future husband in the last hour.

None of it made her feel any better about her situation.

*   *   *

 

That night after the feast, Gwendolen lay in bed, still contemplating the disturbing conversation she’d had with her betrothed.

He claimed he had no intentions of using Kinloch in another Jacobite rebellion. She wasn’t certain, however, that he was telling the truth.

He also did not believe in romantic love. Not that she had any fanciful notions that their marriage would be anything other than a political arrangement, but she’d hoped that somewhere in his past, he might have cared for a woman, or at least understood the emotion in others. With every word or gesture, however, he confirmed her initial impressions of him—that he was an instrument of war, a steel-edged blade, and his heart was made of stone.

Although … There was one thing she had learned tonight which suggested a hint of compassion somewhere in the dark abyss of his soul. He had insisted the MacEwen widows be given time to grieve for their dead husbands before any MacDonald clansmen could make advances upon them.

Had that order come from him directly? she wondered. Had he felt some sympathy for their plight? Or had the idea come from his cousin Lachlan?

At least
that
man seemed attuned to the feminine mind. He had been understanding of her fear when he escorted her from the hall that morning, and he had certainly known how to go about charming her mother.

Angus, on the other hand, had no interest in charming anyone. He was more like a sledgehammer when it came to getting what he wanted.

A knock sounded at the door just then, and she sat up in bed, startled as she peered through the darkness.

“Who’s there?”

The door creaked open, and without waiting for an invitation, her fiancé entered the room, carrying the silver-plated candelabra from her father’s chamber.

Although it belonged to Angus now. Everything did. Including her.

He set the candles down on the chest, closed the door, locked it behind him, then slowly approached the foot of the bed.

Gwendolen watched him in uneasy silence. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

He strode casually around the bed, while the candlelight picked up the golden tones in his wavy hair.

Chapter Six

 

Gwendolen fought to suppress her alarm. “You promised to leave me alone until our wedding night. Please go.”

“Nay, I promised to let you stay a virgin. I didn’t promise to leave you alone. I’m here now, and I am staying, whether you like it or not.”

She frowned. “If I am to be your wife, you could at least
try
to win my affections.”

“I have no interest in your affections, lass. That’s the last thing I want from you.”

He truly was a heartless man, interested in only one thing—power over others. And perhaps a little debauchery on the side.

“No, you just want me to satisfy your vulgar desires. But I am a woman with independent thoughts and feelings. I am not a dog you can command.”

“You’ll be my wife soon, lass, and you
will
obey me, for I am laird and master here.”

“You are laird of Kinloch, not laird of my body. And I am not yet your wife, so I will say it again. Please leave my bedchamber.”

He moved around the side of the massive bed and began to tug at the coverings. She squeezed them to her chest, refusing to let him tear them away.

“I think
you
are the one who’s forgetting the promises we made to each other today,” he said. “You gave your word that you’d be amiable toward me until our wedding night. Yet here you sit, insulting my character, calling me vulgar.” He tugged harder at the bedclothes.

“Let go,” she said through gritted teeth.

He used both hands, as if it were a frivolous game of tug-of-war and he was determined to win it. They pulled back and forth for a few seconds until Gwendolen knew it was pointless to continue. His hands were too big, his legs too strong, braced firmly on the floor. Sure enough, before she could voice a protest, the covers were whisked off the bed and tossed behind him.

Clad only in her shift, Gwendolen hugged her knees to her chest.

“That’s better,” he said, gazing down at her heatedly. “I don’t like it when you hide from me.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it, because I have no intention of simply offering myself to you on a silver platter.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why can you not just leave me be?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I, but that does not give me the right to go traipsing about in other people’s bedchambers, forcing them to share in my wakefulness.”

He was always so serious, so somber, angry and threatening. She had yet to see him smile or show any warmth. Even if she closed her eyes, she could not imagine it.

“Traipsing about,” he said. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Aye.”

He casually looked about the room, which was lit only by the candles he’d brought with him and a small square of moonlight shining in through the window. “This was my bedchamber once, before I was sent away.”

Taken aback by this news, she tucked her bare toes under the hem of her shift. “I was not aware. I assumed…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just never thought about which chamber was yours.”

Had he slept here as a lad? She could not imagine that either.

Her heart was beating very fast, and when he said nothing more, she felt compelled to ramble on. “We changed the linens,” she told him. “Other than that, everything is the same. The furniture, the rug…”

He glanced at the braided rug and the bedclothes lying in a heap on top of it, and continued to sit in silence.

What in the world did he want?

“Of course, I could move to another room if you wish to have this one back,” she suggested, wondering if that was why he had come. “There is a chamber just below this.”

“Nay, that was my sister’s chamber. I occupy my father’s quarters now.”

“You have a sister?” That was a surprise.


Had
. She’s dead now.”

Struck by his gruff tone, Gwendolen softened hers. “I am sorry to hear that. How long ago?” she carefully asked.

“A few years.” He looked the other way.

Still struggling with the flutter of nervous butterflies in her belly, Gwendolen sat very still, hoping that he might simply grow bored with her conversation and decide to leave on his own.

She was not so fortunate, however. Slowly, he swiveled on the bed and stretched out on his back beside her. He crossed his long, muscled legs at the ankles and tossed an arm up under his head, while resting the other at his side.

She took note of the fact that he was not armed. No swords, knives, or pistols hung from his belt. But that only made her more aware of his enormity, for her eyes were free to travel the full length of him from his large booted feet and thick thighs beneath the kilt, to his muscular torso and chest. The position of his arm, bent to cradle his head on the pillow, accentuated the incredible brawn of his biceps and the sheer breadth of his shoulders.

Every nerve in her body was humming with the same mixture of fear and fascination she had felt that morning. And the fact that he was lying here quietly, without touching her or threatening ravishment, was not lost on her. She was attuned to every breath he took, every movement he made, while she strove not to do anything to attract his interest or arouse his lust.

Perhaps he simply wanted to see his childhood room in order to prove to himself that he had indeed reclaimed his home. Despite everything, she was sympathetic to that. She hoped it was the reason for his presence in her bed, and that once he satisfied that curiosity, he would leave.

A full quarter of an hour must have passed while she sat upright on the bed. The stars outside the window proved a useful distraction, until the steady sound of Angus’s breathing alerted her to the fact that he had fallen asleep.

She gazed down at him with surprise, for the sight of this battle-hardened warrior, sleeping peacefully beside her, was like staring into the shifting fog of a dream. It did not seem real. Angus the Lion could not possibly be this man in her bed, who had been a small boy once, sleeping in this very room, cradled perhaps in the arms of his mother.

She leaned closer to study his face. There was nothing vicious about him now. The steely eyes were closed; his expression was serene. Her eyes drifted to his neck, then across his broad shoulders to the silver brooch pinned to his plaid. She glanced down at his kilt and knew what was under there. One day he would use that part of himself to claim his husbandly rights over her body. He would lie naked on top of her, and she would be forced to relent.

Feeling a sudden rise of panic, she set a hand down on the bed to steady herself, and realized this was an unexpected opportunity. Her conqueror was asleep and vulnerable beside her. Was it not her duty to take some kind of action against him? He was reputed to be invincible, but she knew those stories were nothing but fireside tales and legends.

Nevertheless, could she actually succeed in killing him if she tried? Would she have the courage?

Gently and carefully, she rolled to the edge of the bed and reached down to feel for the knife she had placed beneath the mattress that morning. Her fingertips located the grip, and she wrapped her whole hand around it. Slowly, she rolled back toward Angus. He had not moved, nor had his breathing changed in the last few seconds. It was entirely possible that she could plunge this knife into his chest, or slit his throat, and succeed at freeing herself and her clan.

She looked down at him in the candlelight, at his bare, vulnerable neck. She could see the throbbing of his pulse. A crashing wave of nausea overcame her. She had never killed anyone, and was not sure she could do it now, despite the fact that he was her enemy and she had watched him slaughter dozens of her clansmen that morning.

Would she not go to hell for murdering a sleeping, unarmed man in cold blood? It was not a fair fight, but it
was
self-defense—if one could stretch the definition to include generalities, such as the need to protect herself from an unwanted marriage …

Suddenly his eyes opened. In a lightning flash of movement, he seized the knife and flipped her over onto her back. The sharp blade was now pressing against her throat, and she was pinned to the bed, unable to breathe, her heart racing with white-hot terror.

“You should have done it when you had the chance,” he said in a dangerous whisper. “You could have ended my life and spared yourself the horror of your deflowering.”

She stared up at him in shock. “I’ve never killed anyone before. I couldn’t even do it to
you
. I am no warrior.”

BOOK: Claimed by the Highlander
4.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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