Highlander Unmasked (6 page)

Speculation was rife about the nature of his business at court. Not a few ladies Meg had spoken to hoped he was in search of a wife. She didn’t have the heart to disillusion them. They would find out soon enough.

He was a mercenary. A sword for hire looking for a job. A man with no loyalties.

Meg didn’t want to believe it.

She almost wished he were an outlaw. At least then she could believe that he was a man of principle, fighting for something he believed in. That he’d chosen to use his considerable skills to barter to the highest bidder was some heavy tarnish on his shining armor, to say the least.

What was it about Alex MacLeod that so intrigued her? That
still
intrigued her despite what she’d learned of his profession?

More than once tonight, she’d caught herself unconsciously seeking him out. He wasn’t difficult to find. Head set high above the rest, a shock of golden brown hair glistened in the candlelight. His wide shoulders and dark clothing set him apart, as did the strength and power that radiated from him. He appeared remote, untouchable. An inscrutable expression fixed eternally on his handsome face.

He didn’t belong here. He was a Highland warrior in the midst of Lowland courtiers. But it was the courtiers who suffered from the comparison. He was like a great tawny lion holding court among a sea of silk-clad parrots.

Women flocked to him, but he seemed to show no particular favor toward any one. Including Meg. He hadn’t looked at her all night. It didn’t bother her. Truly. She could hardly expect to compete with the steady stream of beautiful women throwing themselves at his feet. Not that she wanted to, she assured herself.

But she knew that for the lie it was when he tossed back his head and laughed at something his companion said. The smile on his face stopped her heart. She drank in the sight of amusement transcending the darkness that normally shaded his expression. There was the smile that she remembered from his visit to Dunakin long ago; she’d wondered where it had gone.

Surely it was a sin to be that glorious? When her gaze shifted to see which lucky woman had brought a smile to his face, Meg was shocked to discover that he was talking to her mother.

Turning back toward the night air, Meg shook her head, a wistful smile playing upon her lips. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Rosalind Mackinnon was exceptionally beautiful and charming, two qualities to which Meg could hardly lay claim. Meg’s features were perfectly acceptable, even pretty in the proper perspective, but downright bland compared with the vividness of her mother’s. Rarely did Meg pay much attention to her appearance; it simply wasn’t that important to her. Her mother had tried to get Meg more interested in clothes, hair, and other feminine accoutrements—repeatedly—but most of the time, Meg was too busy to bother. As for charm, well, her oft blunt tongue precluded any suggestion of that.

Her lack of courtly accomplishments had never concerned her before. It was highly disconcerting to realize that they did so now.

She barely had time to ponder the meaning of her strange melancholy before a familiar voice sounded in her ear.

“Margaret, look who I’ve brought for you to meet. Our delightful neighbor from Skye.”

Meg cast a cautious glance over her shoulder, only to see her beaming mother bearing down on her with a stone-faced Alex pulled along in her wake. That was quick, Meg thought with reluctant appreciation, even for her mother. Unfortunately for Meg, it was too late to hide.

She didn’t miss the horrified look on her mother’s face when she noticed Meg’s gown. Meg looked down. What was wrong with orange?

Bravely, she stood ready to face the torture. She could only imagine what nefarious schemes her mother had concocted. Finding a handsome Highlander at court—from a powerful neighboring clan nonetheless—had probably sent her into a tizzy of excited wedding preparations. But Meg could not fault her for her good intentions—or for her taste, for that matter. Rosalind Mackinnon wanted a fairy-tale marriage for her daughter, whether Meg agreed or not. And a fairy tale always included a handsome prince.

She sighed, resigned to her fate. If it was any consolation, Alex appeared no more eager for this meeting than she. She wondered what her mother had said to get him over here. Meg almost felt sorry for him. With a lesser man, she would have. She knew what it was like to be caught up in the determined machinations of her mother’s schemes. Ever since Meg had begun in earnest her search for a husband, Rosalind Mackinnon had elevated the role of matchmaker to an art form. But she was sure Alex MacLeod could take care of himself. Even against a worthy foe like her mother.

Meg bowed her head slightly in greeting. “Laird MacLeod.”

Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. To put it bluntly, the man flustered her. Simply standing beside him made her pulse race. Once again, she was uncomfortably aware of the vast difference in their sizes. She had to tilt her head back just to look at him. Though, admittedly, it was worth the effort. He really was quite magnificent. And imposing. He made her conscious of her own vulnerability, but at the same time, never had she felt so safe. An odd duality to be sure.

He answered with a curt bow. “Mistress Mackinnon.”

Meg turned to her mother to explain. “I had the pleasure of making Laird MacLeod’s acquaintance last night.”

Her mother’s brows lifted just a little too much to be believable. “You did?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She turned to Alex with a soft, chiding rap of her fan on his arm. “Why, you never mentioned it.”

Alex frowned, obviously confused. “I believe I did—”

“I was just telling this dear boy about our misfortune on the road,” her mother interrupted blithely.

Only her mother could call a man of at least thirty years standing well over six feet a “dear boy”—and mean it.

“But didn’t he tell you?” Meg’s innocent smile mirrored her mother’s as her gaze shifted to Alex. “Laird MacLeod knows all the details of our attack.”

“He does?” her mother asked, and this time her surprise was genuine.

Meg could swear she saw a muscle clench in Alex’s jaw. Proof of his deception, perhaps? She held his gaze as she answered her mother. “Yes, I told him all about it last night.”

His gaze sharpened, as if she’d surprised him. She might enjoy prodding him, but Meg was not fool enough to voice her beliefs to her mother.

“Did the laird tell you that he was a soldier?”

Amazing,
Meg thought. Her mother would have made an excellent inquisitor.

“We could use more men like him in Skye protecting our roads, especially near Dunakin, don’t you think, Meg?”

Meg murmured something, trying to cover her acute embarrassment. Her mother was never one for subtlety. Though Meg supposed neither was she.

Her mother continued, completely unabashed, “It’s a beautiful evening for dancing, isn’t it, my laird?”

“Would you care to dance, my lady?”

Meg smothered her sudden snort of laughter with a cough. The flash of dry wit was unexpected, but delightfully so. She gave him an appreciative grin, and their eyes met in a moment of shared understanding that was strangely affecting. There was more to this forbidding soldier than met the eye.

Undeterred, her mother flashed a saucy smile. “Me?” She tapped him playfully with her fan again, as if he were a naughty schoolboy. “Oh, you’re a horrible tease. I’m much too old for dancing. But…” She turned her eyes on Meg.

Alex didn’t pretend to misunderstand this time. “Mistress Mackinnon, would you care to dance?”

Meg hesitated. There was something about Alex MacLeod that gave her pause. Just as had happened last night when he’d stood so close and his spicy masculine scent enveloped her, her body came alive with awareness. Whenever she was near him, she felt as if every nerve ending were set on edge. Waiting. Anticipating. For what, she did not know.

But she didn’t like it.

On the other hand, her mother was probably already fast at work mentally compiling the guest list for the betrothal and picking out the color for Meg’s elaborate bridal gown. Truth be told, if Meg stuck around much longer, Rosalind would probably ask Alex which color he preferred. At this point, dancing was likely her only means of escape from a potentially even more embarrassing situation.

One dance—surely there could be no harm in that?

Nodding her acceptance, Meg allowed Alex to lead her to the dance floor for a reel. Her hand slid into the bend of his arm, and she fought the urge to pull it back as if shocked. His muscles flexed beneath her fingertips.

Dear God, he was strong.
And hard as a rock.

Her heart beat a little faster.

He placed his hand on her back to guide her toward the dance floor, and a swift jolt surged through her. Her skin felt branded with his touch. She could
feel
him.

Meg flushed, and a strange heat spread over her. The force of her response was unsettling. What was wrong with her? She’d danced with many men, but never had she felt every touch, every movement, as powerfully as she did now. Alex MacLeod was dangerous. He made her mind race with things she’d never thought of before. Intimate things. Longings she’d thought buried.

They formed a small circle with another couple, and the reel began. Every time they came together and clasped hands or his hand fell firmly on her waist to turn her through the steps of the energetic dance, Meg felt a shock of pure heated awareness. She had to fight hard to concentrate on the dance steps, unable to get her mind away from the warm tingle that radiated from under his possessive hold.

Peeking out from beneath her lashes, she took the opportunity to study him closer. She could see the evidence of a hard life in the fine lines around his eyes and the thin scars peppered across his nose and cheeks, the telltale marks of a warrior. The slight dent in his chin and the strong angle of his jaw made him appear hard and forbidding. But his lashes were long and thick, and together with his sensual mouth, they softened an otherwise implacable face.

His expression, as always, was inscrutable. She wondered what he was thinking. Could he tell how affected she was by his touch?

Meg bit her lip. She hoped not. Unlike him, she was not accomplished at hiding her thoughts.

The sooner this dance was over, the better.

This dance was a mistake.

Alex had successfully avoided Meg Mackinnon all night, until Rosalind Mackinnon had sunk her teeth into him. That woman could teach his men something about dogged determination.

He could feel the weight of Meg’s gaze upon him as they danced, and as he’d done throughout the long evening, he forced himself not to return her stare. She looked like an inquisitive little kitten with her big eyes and tiny face, and every time he looked at her, something inside him shifted.

Touching her was pure torture. He’d never been so damn aware of just how much touching there was in a reel. Each time he held her tiny hands in his or placed his hand on her waist to guide her through the steps, he didn’t want to let go. The soft curve of her waist fit neatly in his palm. Too neatly. He longed to caress every sweet inch of her. To slide his hands over her breasts, down her hips, and around her backside, exploring every delectable curve. She was slight, but the feel of her hips hinted of a voluptuousness well hidden under her farthingale.

But it was the sight of her small white teeth nibbling on her plump lower lip that sent shards of lust bolting through him. His groin swelled with heat. The erotic movement cracked the cool reserve he’d struggled to maintain. The primitive desire he’d experienced on the battlefield came rushing back full force. He ached to taste her. To pull her into his arms and feel the press of her body against his. Each time he touched her, the narrow space between them seemed to crackle with anticipation. It would be so easy to lean down and cover her soft mouth with his, to run his tongue along the crease, to slide it in…

Hell.
He was half-hard already. He took a sudden interest in the gilded wall over her shoulder.

The music had slowed, providing an opportunity for conversation that he wasn’t sure he wanted. Breaking the silence, she said, “You don’t have to worry, you know. I’ll keep your secret.”

His eyes fell to hers, betraying nothing. “What secret?” That he wanted to ravage every inch of her with his mouth? To leave her panting with need? To bring out the passion hiding under her serious façade and hear the cry of his name on her lips as she came apart in his arms?

“I
know
it was you who came to our rescue.”

That secret.
A small perverse part of Alex was pleased by her certainty, if not by her persistence. A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “I can see you’ve inherited your mother’s tenacity.”

She looked surprised, as if she’d never recognized the similarity before. A shy, adorable grin lit her features, wiping away all vestiges of the strain and worry that seemed fixed on her expression.

She should look like this always, he thought. Whatever burden she carried—and he was sure that she did carry one—was too heavy. He’d found himself watching her, wondering what made her look so serious. She was young and lovely, she should be having fun. Yet there was a maturity to her bearing that was at odds with her years.

But, he reminded himself, it wasn’t his concern.

“Thank you,” she said.

He hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but she knew that.

“And that wasn’t an answer,” she reminded him.

“Was there a question?”

She gave him a chiding look. “It was implied. But if you insist, I shall spell it out: Was it you who came to our rescue?”

“You seem to think so.”

“I
know
so.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“I’d hardly forget the man who saved my life.”

Alex smiled at her indignant expression. “As much as I’d like to take credit for doing so, I’m afraid I cannot.
If
this man resembled me as much as you say he did, it must be my brother.”

“So you said last night,” she said dismissively. “But as I said earlier, you can keep your secrets.” She paused, and a gleam of something that made Alex nervous appeared in her eye: curiosity. “Though I do wonder why it should matter if you were in Lochalsh. Unless there is a reason you don’t wish people to know you were near Skye?”