Kilts and Daggers (5 page)

“Aye, now if only we can keep the English at bay.”

“Fagan, will you please stop with your references to the English?” Ravenna kissed Ruairi on the cheek, and Fagan stood. “There is no rule that you can't sit by my husband for the meal. Sit. I am perfectly capable of sitting by my English sisters, the enemy.”

As she stepped around Fagan, Ruairi smacked his arm, gesturing for him to say something.

“Ravenna, ye know my words werenae meant for ye or your sisters—well, one sister mayhap, but nae ye.”

She sighed. “That makes me feel so much better, Fagan. Thank you.”

While Ravenna dismissed him, Kat, Elizabeth, Grace, and Torquil came into the great hall and sat down at the table. Fagan once again took his seat and cast Ruairi a helpless look. “I nay longer think I'm safe within my home.”

“Arse.”

Fagan shrugged.

“Ye already had one of them blacken your eye. Have ye nae learned a lesson? My wife even warned ye this morn. Learn to keep your mouth shut.”

“As I said, my laird, after the meal I will ride out to the border.”

“Will you take me along with you?”

Fagan's eyes widened as everyone looked at Grace.

When no one responded, she added, “I'd love to see your lands, Ruairi. If they're anything like the view from the garden wall or from the beach, I'm sure they're magnificent. Would you mind if I came along?”

Fagan received a swift kick to the shin from Ruairi under the table. “Umm…nay, I wouldnae mind if ye came along, but I will nae be gone for long. Are ye sure ye want to—” When his shin ached from another hearty blow from his laird's foot, he quickly said, “We'll leave right after we sup.”

* * *

Grace wasn't sure why she asked what she did, but she wanted to see more of Ruairi's lands. She knew she could've asked her brother-in-law or Ravenna to escort her. But the arrogant captain was going to be her escort the whole way to England so she figured they both could survive the short jaunt to the border. When the meal was finished, Ravenna leaned in close.

“Are you sure you know what you're doing? You said you didn't want anything to do with Fagan, and with the way you've been speaking to him, I don't think he wants anything to do with you.”

“Don't worry. Blood will not be shed. Although if there was, I'm sure your husband would have another fine tapestry made.” When her sister's mouth clenched tighter, Grace said, “I wanted to see more of Ruairi's lands, and his captain was already riding out to the border. There is nothing more than that.”

“Are ye ready?”

When Grace stood and brushed down her skirts, she didn't miss it when Ravenna lowered her voice to speak to Ruairi. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

Rather than wait for her brother-in-law's response, Grace walked with Fagan out into the courtyard. Neither one of them spoke, not that she was surprised. The air was cooler than it had been that afternoon, but she had spent the day in a damp dress. He opened the door to the stable and she followed him.

At least twenty-five horses lined the stalls, their heads all turned toward her. Some of the animals pawed at the ground while others whinnied. There were huge wooden beams overhead and the smell of hay engulfed her senses. When she let out a loud sneeze, some of the horses shied, banging the wooden planks of their enclosures in response.

Fagan came out of a room with a saddle in hand.

“Should we call for a stable hand?” she asked.

“Nay. I can saddle our mounts. 'Tis time for the stable hands to sup. We will nae take them away from their meal.”

She approached him as he opened one of the stall doors and walked in. “Thank you for taking me with you. The beach was lovely.” She was unable to see him past the massive brown horse he saddled, but she heard him grunt in response. “I talked to Ravenna about Kat and Torquil. I think it helped that Torquil came with us to the beach today.”

“I said the same to Ruairi.”

“Yes, well, we seem to have fixed the problem with my sister and the laird's son, Mister Murray.”

He stepped out of the stall and patted the horse on the neck. He didn't look at her, didn't say anything in response, and she watched his broad back as it disappeared into the room again. While Grace stood in silence, she wrung her hands in front of her. After a few moments, he emerged with another saddle in hand and she quickly moved to get out of his way. The way he was behaving, she didn't think he would've waited for her to step aside.

While Fagan saddled the second mount, Grace ambled down the center aisle, studying the horses that lined the stalls. They stood tall and sturdy. She didn't know much about animals, but to her, they all looked like prize horseflesh. When she turned and made her way back to the stalls, the saddled mounts were no longer there. The beastly man couldn't even tell her that he was ready to depart.

She walked out and closed the stable door behind her. Fagan stood by the mounting block. “You could've told me you were waiting. I was only looking at the horses.” She took a deep breath and knew she shouldn't have been so hostile toward him, but the man drove her completely mad. When she approached him, his steely gaze met hers.

“Earlier on the beach, ye didnae want my help. Do ye need my Scottish hands to assist ye,
bhana-phrionnsa
, or are ye capable of placing your English arse in the saddle yourself?”

Leaves rustled in the wind. The Sutherland lands were beautiful with lush foliage, rocky cliffs, and mossy-green grass. The sky above had hues of purple and orange, and there was no other place Fagan would rather be. He never minded riding out to the border for that reason alone. For a slight moment, he had even forgotten Grace was with him because she'd been silent ever since they'd departed from the gates.

She sat on her mount, and her head whipped from left to right. “I find myself rendered speechless.”

He had a quip ready on the tip of his tongue, but after his last remark about Grace's English behind, he decided he'd better heed Ruairi and Ravenna's advice and keep his mouth shut if he didn't want more trouble.

“How long have these lands been in the Sutherland clan?”

Fagan had heard Ruairi spin the tale of Sutherland clan history more times than he could count, and the lass had an eager look on her face. Perhaps she was interested in hearing a bit of history. When he hesitated and met her gaze, she nodded for him to talk.

“By the early tenth century, Norsemen had conquered the islands of Shetland and Orkney, as well as Caithness and Sutherland on the mainland. The Norse had control over Scotland beyond Moray Firth. The lower portion of the lands was called ‘Suderland' because it was south of the Norse islands and Caithness. Ruairi and I share a common ancestor.” When he noticed her eyes glazing over, he asked, “Do ye want me to continue?”

“Yes, please. I'm interested to hear about Ravenna's new family.”

“A Flemish nobleman named Freskin de Moravia was commissioned by the king—David the First—to clear the Norse from the lands. De Moravia was a legend in his time, having killed the last breathing Norseman in Scotland. Some years later, the Sinclairs rebelled against the Bishop of Caithness over tithes he imposed, and once again, the Sutherland clan was charged with restoring law and order. These lands have been in the hands of the Sutherland clan for centuries. Ruairi's clan descends from Freskin de Moravia's eldest grandson, Hugh de Moravia, whereas the Murrays descend from the youngest grandson, William de Moravia.”

“You must be very proud. Do you ride out here often?”

“My men make their rounds along the border.”

“What's over that mountain pass? Can we go up there?”

“Nay. This is far enough. The lands beyond that field arenae our own.”

She nodded. “Are they Laird Gordon's?”

“Gordon?”

“I thought I heard Laird Munro mention something about him. Perhaps I was mistaken. I had assumed the Gordons were a neighboring clan. Was Laird Gordon at the wedding? I don't remember meeting him.”

“Nay. The Gordon is dead.” Fagan wasn't going to tell her about the father of Ruairi's first wife. He also believed it unwise to mention that the land where Grace's mount now stood had been the site of a bloody battle between the Sutherlands and the Gordons not all that long ago.

“So who owns the lands beyond the mountain pass, Laird Munro?”

“Nay. They belong to the Gunns. Ian's lands are farther south.”

Grace mumbled under her breath, but loud enough for Fagan to hear. “Let's hope they're far enough south that a certain someone won't decide to cross them.”

“Lady Elizabeth mayhap?”

Grace glanced down at her reins, twirling the leather straps between her fingers. “Elizabeth? Why would you say that?”

“I think ye already know the answer to that question.” He didn't miss it when Grace suddenly turned her head and promptly changed the subject.

“Do you mind if we stay here for a moment? There's so much heather in the field. I'd like to walk around.”

“Nay, I donna mind.” He dismounted, and by the time he moved in front of his horse, Grace's feet were already planted on the ground. “If ye want to walk, give me your horse. I'll hold him for ye.”

“Thank you.” She handed Fagan the reins, spun on her heel, and was gone before he could say another word.

* * *

Grace stood in the middle of the field of heather, the skies lovely shades of purple, orange, and yellow. She needed a moment away from Fagan. How could the man know Elizabeth pined after Laird Munro? Was it
that
apparent? She caught herself glancing uneasily over her shoulder. Fagan had tied off the mounts and was walking toward her. She had a sneaking suspicion he was going to question her further and was uncomfortable with his ability to uncover her thoughts.

“For someone who hates the Highlands as much as ye do, ye seem to enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I do not hate the Highlands, Mister Murray. The people are rather questionable, but the lands are very beautiful.”

“Is it true then? Is Lady Elizabeth trying to shackle Ian?”

Even though he spoke the truth, Grace wasn't daft enough to admit it. Girding herself with resolve, she kept her voice firm and final. “My sister is only fifteen. Why would she need to shackle anyone? Besides, she is beautiful and smart. She can have any man she desires. Why would she want someone like Laird Munro when there are plenty of English lords for her choosing?”

“I donna know, lass. 'Tis why I asked ye.”

Grace straightened herself with dignity and smoothed her skirts. “Understand this… Elizabeth is a Walsingham, and we Walsinghams chase no man.”

“Aye, well, I'll be sure to tell that to Torquil the next time I see him.”

“We should return before the sun sets.” Grace stepped around the wall that was Fagan. She started to walk back to the horses without him when a hand snaked around her waist. Suddenly, she found herself facing a very broad chest.

“The sun will nae set for another hour.”

“What is it you want from me, and why do you
insist
on plaguing me at every turn?”

He boldly met her eyes. “Why is it ye always walk away from me when ye donna like what I have to say?”

She lifted a brow. “Pardon?”

“Donna be coy with me. Ye understand my words.”

She huffed. “I don't like you, Mister Murray.”

“So ye've said many times before,
bhana-phrionnsa
.”

She gave him a hostile glare and clenched her teeth. “Will you quit calling me that?”

“Why? What are ye going to do? Punch me in the face again?” His expression was tight with strain, and he stood so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

“You are nothing but an arrogant, beastly excuse for a man and—”

Her last words were smothered because Fagan's mouth covered hers with a savage intensity that startled her. The punishment of his lips on hers made her knees tremble. Her emotions whirled and skidded. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. Her wild-beating heart was the only sound audible.

Oh, bloody hell.

Grace couldn't miss the musky smell of him as he pulled her closer. His hands locked against her ribs like steel bindings. She tried not to think about how hard and warm his body was against hers. When she felt blood surge from her fingertips the whole way to her toes, she knew this had to be a sin to feel so good.

His mouth did not become softer as he kissed her. His kiss was punishing, angry. He forced her lips open with his thrusting tongue, and she'd never felt more alive. She lifted her arms around his neck, and his long hair brushed her cheek. She could swear she felt the fierce pounding of his heart against hers, and she suddenly became deeply conscious of the heavy rise and fall of her chest against his.

God help her. She willingly complied. She knew she should deter his advances, but the passion between them consumed all thought. She returned his kiss with growing confidence, matching the thrust and parry of his tongue. What was wrong with her? She couldn't get enough. She succumbed all right, and she didn't do it in half measure but with fervor.

For some odd reason, she had no desire to back out of his embrace. She knew she should. This wasn't right. The kiss had to be so wrong. As if reality slowly crept back in, she arched her body against him, seeking to get free.

She pulled back and her mouth burned with fire. She panted between slightly parted lips. “How. Dare. You. Kiss. Me.” Then, in one forward motion, she grasped his jaw and reclaimed his lips with hers.

He crushed her against him, kissing her with no mercy. Without warning, he lifted his head and they parted by mere inches. “I. Donna. Like. English. Women.” His voice was low and rough, as if he were in pain. With a primal growl, he lowered his lips to hers again, and she was made to endure the cruel ravishment of Fagan's mouth.

Her wild frenzy only seemed to increase his. He caressed her lips with demanding mastery. The harder and deeper he kissed her, the more she wanted. Grace had never dreamed a kiss from any man would feel like this.

Her hands explored the breadth of his shoulders and his powerful muscled chest. He was raw, primitive. He was a Highlander in every sense of the word and form. When an innocent moan escaped her, he pulled back.

There was a heavy silence.

Fagan disturbed her in every way. She knew an attraction to him would be perilous, but the idea sent her spirits soaring. As his gaze traveled over her face, she glanced down, pulling herself away from her ridiculous preoccupation with his emerald eyes. He lifted her chin gently with his finger, and his breathing was heavy.

“'Tis foolish for an English lass to fall in love with a Highlander. I donna want to see Elizabeth hurt.”

Grace detected a thawing in his tone. She nodded, almost forgetting he was speaking of Elizabeth. “I thought the same.”

“There could ne'er be anything between them.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Good. Now that that's settled, I'll get the mounts.”

* * *

Fagan was mindless with lust. It had taken all of his strength to pull away from Grace. He wasn't sure where he came up with the brilliant idea to kiss her, when all he had really wanted was for her to hold her tongue. He was tired of her and her raging ire toward him. When he had enough sense to stop kissing her, he felt humbled just looking at her. She'd given him the greatest of gifts.

Grace had been completely honest in her response to him.

He grabbed the reins to the mounts before he lost all sense of reason. She slowly approached him, and he didn't ask for permission before he had lifted her onto her horse. In that uncomfortable moment, she couldn't look him in the eye, and he wasn't sure what he would've said to her if she had.

They rode back to the castle without a spoken word between them. The sun had started to set, and before long, light would be lost. Fagan hoped it would be dark enough soon to mask the troubled expression that he knew crossed his brow, because he'd begun to wonder just what he wanted from Grace. When he quickly stole a glance, a look of tired sadness passed over her face. Her glowing, youthful happiness had faded. He knew he was the cause and that unsettled him.

They rode into the bailey, and as soon as the stable hand took away their mounts, Grace approached Fagan. Uncertainty crept into her expression, and for a brief moment he was surprised she didn't flee.

“Thank you for taking me with you. Ruairi's lands are beautiful.”

“As are ye, Grace.” He wasn't sure why he said the words, but he wanted to see her smile return. He needed to bring her bright eyes back to the way they were before he snuffed out the light.

She looked up at him with an effort. Her voice was low, soft. “I don't understand what happened. What was that between us?”

Fagan paused. “I donna know, but we know it cannae happen again. 'Tis more than likely best nae to discuss it.”

She waved him off. “Of course. I don't know what I was thinking. The kiss meant nothing.” She choked on her words and spun on her heel as he reached out to stay her.

“Grace…”

He was too late. She was gone, and he was an idiot.

Fagan took his sorry self into the great hall where Ruairi and Torquil sat at a table. Only a few clan members remained, most of them having taken their leave for the eve. Ruairi looked up and greeted Fagan with a brief nod.

“How far did ye go?”

Fagan stared, speechless.

“How far did ye ride? I thought I'd have to send the men out to find ye.”

He sat beside Ruairi on the bench. “We rode to the border.”

“And blood wasnae shed?”

“Nay.”

“And Lady Grace is still alive and whole?”

Fagan rolled his eyes. “Aye. We are both verra much hale.”

“I'm glad to hear it. There may be some hope for the both of ye yet.”

“What are ye and Torquil doing? I thought ye'd be with your lady wife.”

Ruairi folded his arms and leaned on the table. “Torquil is drawing a picture of the beach for Lady Katherine. I think all his studies with Ravenna in the library have uncovered a hidden talent. Who knew we had an artist in the Sutherland clan?”

“'Tis verra good, Torquil.” Fagan gave Ruairi a brotherly punch in the arm. “But I would think twice before ye tell his secret to the women. Before ye know it, they'll have your tapestries down and replaced with Torquil's drawings.”

“My tapestries? Why? What's wrong with them?”

Torquil looked up from his project. “The lasses donna like the scenes of war and battle. They say there's too much blood and death on your walls. They want flowers or something of the like.”

“Flowers? And how do ye know that?” asked Ruairi.

“They donna think I listen, but I do. Ravenna and Grace talk about the wall hangings all the time.” For a brief moment, the boy looked deep in thought. “Well, mostly Grace talks and Ravenna listens.” When he resumed his purpose, Ruairi and Fagan chuckled.

“I'll leave ye two to your task then.”

Fagan stood and made his way to his chamber. He wanted to be alone to forget every single detail of Grace's face, and he needed time so that his blood no longer rushed from unbidden memories of holding her, touching her. And if that didn't work, he'd stay confined within the walls of his chamber until he could figure out what the hell was wrong with him.