Hannah and the Highlander (3 page)

The thought should have concerned her, frightened her, stopped her wayward thoughts. It did not. He was—

Her elation deflated in an instant, replaced by a howling wash of chagrin, when he released her and stepped away. In his absence, a cold wind rushed in. His features went taut, a muscle bunched in his cheek, and he gave a tiny shake of his head.

Hannah was no fool. She recognized rejection when she saw it. Something bitter tickled the back of her throat. Heat raked her. Mortification raged.

Damn and blast.

He had saved her from an overzealous suitor, as any chivalrous man would. He had touched her cheek in sympathy for her injury. He had done or said nothing to encourage her to
crawl up his body
as she had.

She should have known. A man like this would never be interested in a mousy, bookish woman with too-large eyes and a crooked mouth. A man like this would want a bold, beautiful warrior princess like Susana. They all did.

No doubt women clamored for his kisses. No doubt he had to fight them off with a stick. No doubt her kiss had been naught but an annoyance from yet another dewy-eyed lass.

She shouldn't have kissed him—though she couldn't regret that she had.

“I'm—”
No.
She would not apologize. She cleared her throat and waved back at the spot where Niall had so nearly ravaged her. “Um. Thank you. I dinna realize he had followed me until it was too late.”

He nodded.

Silence sizzled between them. “I'm Hannah Dounreay.” She thrust out a hand.

He stared at it.

“And you are…?”

She waited for his response on bated breath, aching to know his name. Raw embarrassment still scorched her and discontent raged within her breast at the reminder that she could never attract a man like this. It would help, a little, knowing his name. At least she would know what to call him when she thought of him in the years to come. And she would.

His Adam's apple made the long slide up and down his throat. His lips parted. Hannah stared at them, trying very hard not to think about leaping on him and kissing him again. It was difficult. Something about his scent, his aura, his presence, tugged at her soul. Filled her with an unfamiliar
hunger
.

But he didn't give her his name; he wouldn't even grant her that tiny sliver. Without a word he bowed to her, spun on his heel, and strode away.

Hannah gaped at his receding form, raging emotions tumbling through her in a maelstrom. Few were pleasant. Had that been what it had seemed? A complete and utter cut direct?

How rude.

As embarrassing and dreadful and delightful as this entire debacle had been, for some reason outrage trumped all other feelings. Fury railed her. Though he was physically perfect, tempting, and …
tasty
, she never wanted to set eyes on him ever again.

Whoever he was.

 

CHAPTER
TWO

Alexander Lochlannach, Laird and Baron of Dunnet, clenched his fists as he made his way back to his tent. Damn, but the touch of her lips, the dab of her tongue, had been sublime.

Hannah.
Her name was Hannah.

At the thought of her, something ephemeral and enticing bubbled in his breast.

He couldn't help but notice her as he'd prepared for the caber toss, didn't miss the fact that she watched him with a gleaming interest. Indeed, he'd felt her gaze like a raging firestorm. A spear of lust.

His first glimpse of her had stunned him. She'd been laughing, with her head thrown back and her eyes alight, her hair like a river of black silk streaming down her back. She was a tiny thing with lush curves and alabaster skin. Her large brown eyes made her appear vulnerable, like a frightened fawn, but he knew better. There was strength in her, a spine of steel. The set of her chin left no room for wondering about that.

Aye, he'd wanted her on sight. He'd been
compelled
to follow her when she'd sauntered away from the festival. He'd been enraged to find her on the ground, pinned by that worm Niall Leveson-Gower.

Niall was lucky he still had his man parts. The only thing that had stayed Alexander's hand was the fact that maiming the marquess' son would probably have started an all-out war. Alexander's relationship with Stafford was rocky at best, and it was unwise to provoke a man who had the ear of the Prince Regent.

He'd considered it, though. For Hannah.

When she'd told him her name, he'd nearly laughed out loud. Some inappropriate amusement twined with bone-deep relief.
She
was the daughter his friend Magnus Dounreay, Laird of Reay, had been urging him to offer for. He could kick himself for not taking Magnus up on his invitation to visit Ciaran Reay and meet her.

Why had he resisted?

Aside from her gorgeous face, her mouthwatering form, she came fist in glove with a swath of prosperous lands. Lands any man would be honored to claim as his own.

Ah well.
He knew why he'd resisted. Any lass with eyes in her head would espy his ruined face and run for the hills.

But she hadn't run for the hills. She'd
kissed
him. Kissed
him
.

And damn. He should have kissed her back.

Hell. He should have given her his name.

But when he'd stared into her mesmerizing amber eyes, his mind had seized, his throat had locked, and a familiar panic had scorched him.

He hated his curse. He always had, but never more than now.

Alexander didn't have a pretty face or a silver tongue like his brother, Andrew. And unlike other men, Alexander's wounds were not easily hidden. They taunted him daily. Every time he glanced at the glass. Every time he opened his mouth.

He tried, very hard, not to do either with any regularity.

His brother had no trouble whatsoever issuing seductive whispers to entrancing ladies. No trouble at all offering something as simple as a name. And though Alexander had worked hard to overcome his challenges, every once in a while they rose up to best him. At those times, each word, each syllable, was a torment. But he fought, fought like hell, to make sure, when he spoke, his words were bold and clear.

He resolved, the next time he saw her, he would be more prepared.

Hannah.

Aye, he'd been captivated by her at first glance, and intrigued when she told him her name and he realized the breadth of her dowry. But it hadn't been until their lips had brushed that he'd known—
known
—she was his. It had hit him like a fist to the gut.

Now that he'd held her, tasted her, he wanted her. With an unruly passion.

It was a damn shame he hadn't kissed her back. He could have shown her with his actions that which he found so difficult to say.

But he would have her. Have her he would.

His determination swelled and he changed direction, striding through the crowd, searching for Magnus. Now that Alexander had made up his mind, there was no reason to delay. Aside from which, he knew Hannah had many suitors. He would not lose her to one of them. Not now.

His steps stalled as a booming voice called his name. He fought back a grimace.
Blast.
Olrig. The last person he wanted to see right now. Ever, really. Olrig was the laird of the land to the east of Dunnetshire and through the years they'd had more conflicts than Alexander could remember—mostly because Olrig was an ass, determined to fill his coffers at all costs. He saw reeving as a game, a right of Highland lairds, and didn't flinch at sending men over the border to steal cattle, raid crofts, and cause mayhem.

Aside from that, Olrig reminded him of someone he had detested. Alexander tried not to let the resemblance prejudice him, but it was difficult when Olrig insisted on
acting
like Dermid as well.

He considered pretending not to hear, walking faster in the opposite direction, but if he knew Olrig, and he did, the man would hound him to the ends of the earth if he wanted something. Best get this over with. With a sigh Alexander turned and watched as Olrig hastened toward him.

It was slightly amusing watching Olrig hasten. He was hardly a sprightly man. Indeed, his face was red and his breath hard as he approached. Whatever he wanted to discuss must be important for him to bestir himself so.

Alexander didn't know the reedy man at Olrig's side, but there were many here he'd not met.

“Ah. Dunnet. There you are,” Olrig huffed.

Alexander fixed him with a dark look.

Olrig did a credible job of hiding his flinch and forced a smile. Alexander could tell it was forced because it didn't meet his eyes. “Dunnet, have you met Scrabster?” Olrig waved to the bony man.

Ah.
This was Scrabster, Olrig's neighbor to the west. Scrabster's lands bordered Reay. Though they had never met, Alexander had heard of him. None of the stories had been flattering, though they were in keeping with his constantly shifting beady eyes. Scrabster gave a brief bow. “A great pleasure to finally meet the legendary Wolf of Dunnet,” he wheezed.

Alexander narrowed his eyes. He disliked the moniker.

Scrabster paled and took a step away and Olrig laughed. He clapped the slender man on his back with a force that launched him forward. “He looks ferocious, but I assure you, he is quite tame.”

Where Olrig had reached that conclusion was a mystery. “Aye,” Alexander said through his teeth. “Quite tame. Until someone raids my mill.”

Olrig laughed again, but there was a thread of alarm in the sound. “Och, Dunnet. That was all in good fun.”

“It willna be fun when winter comes and there is not enough grain in the stores to feed my people.”

“I have people too,” the bastard said with a shrug.

Alexander stifled a growl. Or perhaps not. “Stay off my land, Olrig,” he said. “And tell your minions I will gut the next man who crosses our borders with mischief in mind.”

“Well, there's nae reason to be huffy,” Olrig said. Huffily.

For some reason Alexander's fist wanted, rather mightily, to plant itself into a bulbous nose. He reminded himself of his vow to control his temper; he didn't want to be the kind of man who lost it with frequency. Though with certain people controlling it was more of a challenge. It took some effort, but he managed to uncurl his fingers.

“Surely we can look past these petty squabbles,” Scrabster said in a lofty tone, and Alexander's glare rounded on him. His features arranged themselves into something he probably thought was an encouraging smile. It dimmed when he caught Alexander's expression. “Ahem. I mean, I, we … We wanted to talk to you, Dunnet.”

Ah, bluidy fooking hell.
Impatience simmered. He had no time for this. He was eager to find Magnus and make his offer at once. “Aye?”

“Before the meeting,” Scrabster added.

Alexander arched a brow. “About what?”

Perhaps his irritation was plain on his face or perhaps it was the ferocity of his expression, but the men exchanged pained glances and eased back. Then Olrig collected his courage, sucked in a breath, and gusted, “It has to do with Stafford.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes.
Really?
Had Niall run to Daddy already? The marquess was one of the most powerful men in the region and something of a bully, but Alexander didn't care if he ran afoul of him. What his son had tried to do was heinous and—

“He has a proposal ye will want to hear,” Scrabster whispered.

Now this was surprising. Although any proposal from Stafford would, no doubt, be abhorrent. The rumors and reports coming from Sutherland, where he had his seat, were sickening. Stafford was in the process of clearing his land, though they called it Improvements—evicting tenants and importing sheep to make a profit. The trouble was, the tenants had nowhere else to go and those who resisted were beaten, sent to the colonies, or killed outright. The practice had created bands of roving thieves who ravaged the Highlands, and hordes of homeless refugees. It unraveled the fabric of the clan system that made Scotland what it was.

And all for profit.

Stafford was a grasping bastard, and the worst kind of grasping bastard. One with no conscience whatsoever.

“What kind of proposal?” Alexander spat.

Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. It had the unfortunate effect of encouraging Olrig. His face lit with enthusiasm. “Come and hear him out. He's waiting for you in his tent.”

Alexander's gut rippled. He had no intention of meeting with Stafford. He couldn't imagine the man having anything of interest to say. With a snort he shook his head, then turned away.

“Wait!” Olrig grabbed his arm; his hold was far too tight. Alexander glanced at Olrig's hand and growled a little in his throat. Olrig blanched and released him. “Listen, Dunnet. These are changing times. You will want to be onboard for this.”

Something in his tone made Alexander's blood go cold. “What do you mean?” He ground out the words through clenched teeth.

Olrig leaned closer. The stench of his sweat engulfed Alexander like a cloud. “As you know, Stafford is … close to the Prince Regent.”

“Aye.”

“The word is, the prince will soon give him the title of Duke of Sutherland.”

Alexander frowned. He didn't know why this would affect him. His lands were not in Sutherland County; his overlord was the Duke of Caithness.

“Rumor has it, when Stafford receives the title, the prince will gift him Caithness' lands as well.”

It was hard not to gape. With both counties, Stafford would hold all of northern Scotland. Including Dunnet. Alexander set his teeth. “And what of the Duke of Caithness?”

He didn't like Olrig's grin. “We doona need to worry about Lachlan Sinclair.”

The little hairs on Alexander's nape prickled. Lachlan Sinclair, the aforementioned duke, Alexander's ancestral overload and Chief of the Clan, had been an absentee laird for decades, eschewing his homeland for the frolics of London. He had recently returned to Scotland, though he hadn't bothered to attend this convocation of his lairds.