Margo Maguire (6 page)

We?

Fury simmered just beneath Lachann’s surface, and his hands were oh so ready to draw his sword. But there had been no open warfare between the MacMillans and Macauleys since that final battle when Lachann had taken Ewan hostage. Matters had quieted, even after the debacle with Fiona, but naught had been settled.

And Macauley was ahead in the game of rivalry he was playing. Lachann knew how easily rumors spread in the highlands. He was certain Macauley must have gotten wind of his intentions to come to Kilgorra and wed Catrìona. The blighter had seen it as an opportunity to thwart Lachann while he bettered his lot.

Just as he’d done on Skye.

At least this time Lachann had no intimate connection to the bride. She was merely the means to an end.

Lachann eased his hand away from the hilt of his sword and turned his attention to Laird MacDuffie. Was the man so well jaked that he had lost all influence over his daughter? Would he actually allow her to choose Macauley?

A
nna clipped down a back staircase when she finished in the great hall, then stood in the shadowy corridor outside the kitchen with her back against the wall.

Her reaction to Lachann MacMillan was unwarranted and unwelcome. She would brace herself next time she needed to be in his presence, and somehow ignore the remarkable sensations that skittered through her when she stood near him.

She wondered if this was anything like the attraction Kyla had felt for Birk when he’d first begun coming ’round to court her. He’d been such a fine young man then, strong, but attentive and sweet. And when Kyla had fallen wildly in love with him, Anna had been envious of her friend. She’d thought perhaps she might like to fall in love, too. . . .

But no Kilgorran had affected her the way Birk had done with Kyla. And now that everyone on the isle knew how well that had turned out, Anna had concluded she was far better off keeping to herself. She would live out her life as Gudrun had done, content in her small cottage behind the castle gardens. ’Twas far safer.

But Anna couldn’t avoid Lachann MacMillan entirely, for he’d moved into the keep and she had duties to perform near, and even inside, his bedchamber. She would just have to figure some way to make herself immune to his appeal.

Mayhap she would picture him as the troll in one of Gudrun’s tales—the horrible creature that hid beneath the bridge as the billy goats tried to pass.

Anna snorted at the very idea.

Lachann MacMillan was anything but a troll, as her drumming heart attested.

“Anna? Is that ye back there?” Flora called out.

“Aye,” Anna replied, stepping into the kitchen.

“We can finish up with all the doings in the great hall without ye,” Flora said. “Go on down to Janet’s and see about Kyla.”

“Aye, soon. I’ll just take this last tray up to them,” Anna said in spite of herself.

“But—”

“ ’Twill not delay me much.”

Anna took the tray before Flora could protest any further, but she stopped before she reached the top of the stairs. She paused, balancing the tray against the wall as she smoothed her apron and slid the few loose strands of her hair into her braid before entering the hall.

MacMillan looked right at her as she crested the top step. And he looked away just as quickly.

Ach, fine then
. Anna wanted naught to do with him, either.

Chapter 8

L
achann avoided looking at Anna as she placed a tray of honeyed sweets on the table, but he was unlikely to forget the sight of her comely face.

“There’s little point in wandering ’round the isle, MacMillan. Macauley can show you the distillery upon the morrow.” Laird MacDuffie’s words had begun to slur together. “ ’Tis far more interesting than the land.”

“The distillery?” Lachann asked, surprised yet again. What did the distillery have to do with anything? Fine spirits were brewed there, but it made Kilgorra a target for raiders, who would take the whiskey if there was no fighting force to challenge them.

“Aye. The Kilgorra Distillery,” MacDuffie said. “Cullen has taken a special interest in it.”

“I appreciate the offer, Laird,” Lachann said, choosing his words carefully, “but I had hoped to take the day to explore the land tomorrow.”

What in hell was Macauley up to?

“Ach, ’tis all the same to me,” MacDuffie said into his glass. Then he downed its contents. “Do what you will.”

Aye. As soon as he explored the island, he was going to recruit men who wanted to train as warriors, in spite of the laird’s belief in perpetual peace.

Lachann did not know how the man remained upright after so much whiskey. But then Anna’s retreating form caught his eye, and the laird’s tolerance for drink became no more than a passing thought.

Anna’s face and form were as fair as any Lachann had ever seen, but naught was seductive about the lass. She did not make flirtatious eyes at him, nor give any coy smiles to invite his attention. The clothing she wore was hardly alluring, no different from the attire worn by the servants at Braemore Keep. She wore no beguiling jewels, nor was her hair arranged in some intricate fashion designed to draw a man’s eye.

And yet—

“Our wee isle has little to boast of,” Catrìona said, thankfully breaking into Lachann’s musings. But her tone and expression indicated a surprising distaste for her island home. “We have fishermen who make the pier reek of rotting fish entrails, and the paltry farms scattered among the rocky hillsides are hardly worth your time.”

“The only thing of value on Kilgorra is the distillery,” Macauley added, and Catrìona gave him a warm smile. An encouraging smile.

“I’ll take your word on that. For now,” Lachann responded, mystified by their attitude. Was it possible they did not understand the vital importance of grain in the production of Kilgorra whiskey? And that the more widely known the whiskey became, the greater the necessity of armed men to protect it?

Ach, this conversation was making Lachann’s head throb. He’d have left the table in disgust, but he knew he needed to remain with his hosts and be convivial. Macauley was as irritating as ever, and Catrìona—well, she was purely puzzling.

’Twas obvious she was partial toward Macauley, and yet she flirted with Lachann. . . .

Gesu,
he hoped Catrìona did not intend to play games of her own.

Mayhap he could convince her to spend time with him after supper without Macauley’s unwelcome presence. There, perhaps he could declare his intentions directly to her and ask for her answer.

He had had no illusions about her comeliness or lack thereof, but he’d hoped she would at the very least be biddable. Mayhap even glad to have a suitor of her own status to woo and wed her. Without Macauley’s influence, ’twas entirely possible she would be more agreeable—

“Come back here, Anna,” Catrìona said. “Build up the fire, else Father will take a chill. And take that manky cat with you when you leave.”

Lachann sensed some animosity from Catrìona toward Anna, but from what he had seen, the lass performed her duties well. He found no cause for complaint. On the contrary, she moved about almost silently on her bare feet, serving the table efficiently, without intruding.

Lachann remembered the passion he’d seen in her eyes during their earlier encounters on the pier and at the healer’s cottage. He could easily imagine her fiery response if he should kiss her.

Gesu!

He took a large gulp of ale and pointedly turned his attention from the maid. What in hell was he thinking? Once he made Catrìona his bride, he would reside in the keep. Anna would continue to serve him and his wife.

He needed to keep that in mind.

C
atrìona did not miss the quick appraising look of appreciation that crossed Lachann’s face when his eyes alighted upon Anna, and the anger that always simmered just below her surface when Anna was near threatened to bubble over.

She should have drowned the wench when she’d had the chance years ago.

Anna had been worse than a thorn in Catrìona’s side since the day she and her mother had arrived on Kilgorra. Catrìona had been on the verge of gaining some fatherly attention for a change when Sigrid and her wee brat had sailed into Kilgorra harbor, looking for a home.

That woman with her Norse speech and strange ways should have stayed at Kearvaig with her dead husband’s family. ’Twas entirely unfair that the fair-haired wench—a foreigner, at that—should have snared Catrìona’s father in marriage.

Ach, but she’d been a comely one. And Catrìona’s father had been unable to resist her wiles. He’d allowed Sigrid to distract him from Catrìona’s grief over the loss of her own beloved mother, and he’d taken Sigrid MacIver to his bed. He’d married her and then thrown his preference for the woman’s fair daughter in Catrìona’s face.

Catrìona had not cared one whit when the Norsewoman had died birthing her bairn. And she suspected that if the woman’s son had not died at birth, then she might very well have been motivated to . . .

Well, her actions likely would have depended upon how much her father had doted upon the bairn—and ignored
her
.

She watched Anna kneel before the fireplace, arranging bricks of peat on the grate and lighting the fire. When she stood up to leave and faced the table to give a slight curtsey, Catrìona took great satisfaction in the smudge of filthy ashes on her cheek.
Not so perfect now, eh?

Her stepsister deserved that degradation and more.

Once she was given her leave, Anna picked up that horrid feline she favored and disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. Mayhap Catrìona should see to it that the foul cat disappeared. ’Twould serve the wench right.

She turned to Lachann, wishing there was a way to avoid Cullen on the morrow. Because when she beckoned him next, she wanted him to be mad with lust. Ach, she doubted she would choose Cullen for her husband, for he had nowhere near the wealth of the MacMillans. But she could enjoy him now.

She caught his eye and nearly laughed aloud. He was so easy to tease, and knowing that his cock was becoming hard under his plaid was incredibly arousing.

He was an adequate bedmate, though not half as inventive as Eòsaph Drummond. And Eòsaph did not mind when Birk Ramsay joined them in the cave for some brazenly stimulating activities. She wished Birk had come to the chapel with Eòsaph that afternoon, then mayhap she would not have felt quite so needy right now.

She felt Cullen squirm beside her, and surreptitiously slid her hand under his plaid and onto his thigh. And then up.

He made a strangled sound, then coughed to cover it when she cupped his ballocks in her hand.

While Catrìona grasped Macauley’s jewels, she observed Lachann MacMillan listening intently to her father, trying to make sense of his rambling discourse on the history of Kilgorra whiskey. And she smiled, thinking about the tryst she would have with Cullen upon the morrow in the locked office of the distillery, with Geordie Kincaid shuffling his papers just outside.

A
nna felt naught but relief when there was no more to do besides scoop up the cat, Effie, and escape from her stepfather’s great hall.

She’d heard Laird MacDuffie’s rambling blather about the distillery, and it pleased her to note that Lachann MacMillan kept his own counsel for the most part.

She’d sensed his eyes upon her, and though his gaze had not exactly unnerved her, she’d felt a distinctly warming effect on her skin. Her face had heated, and the tips of her breasts had tightened so they were excruciatingly sensitive. She cuddled furry Effie tightly to her chest to make the sensation go away.

Her gaze had been inexorably drawn to MacMillan, and she could not help but notice the shadow of a beard on his square jaw. His dark hair curled slightly at his nape, and his big hand was curled in a deceptively innocent manner ’round his mug. Anna knew how potent those hands were, and not only from the way they’d dealt with Kyla and Birk. Even now, Anna could feel the energy of his touch, the leashed power that he wielded.

Ach, ’twas best to have gotten out of there. As hard as she tried to think of Lachann MacMillan as a troll, ’twas not possible.

“W
ould you care to see the rest of the keep, Lachann?” Catrìona asked.

“No,” he replied. “I need to see where my men will be housed.”

“Of course,” Catrìona said.

“I’ll go with you.” Macauley pushed back from the table and made to accompany them.

“That will not be necessary, Cullen,” Catrìona said pleasantly. “Besides, my father is ready to retire. You know how he’s come to enjoy your assistance when he prepares for bed.”

’Twas a victory for Lachann, but it felt quite small after watching Catrìona and Macauley sitting close together all through the meal.

The MacMillan men rose from their seats and followed Catrìona and Lachann from the hall. Lachann did not bother to look back at Macauley. He could feel the bastard’s glare through his plaid.

They left the great hall and went through a passageway to a door that led to the back of the keep. They stepped outside into a wide bailey lined by trees.

“Did you see the barracks when you came through the castle gates?” Catrìona asked.

“We did,” Lachann replied. “Near the armory, adjacent to the smithy.”

The barracks were located at the edge of a wide courtyard, in view of the keep. As they approached the long stone building, Lachann noticed the blacksmith standing at the open door of the smithy with his arms folded across his chest. He was red-haired and slightly slack-jawed, but his eyes stayed on the MacMillan group as they passed.

Or mayhap ’twas Catrìona he watched. There was a dullness about his eyes, and Lachann wondered if the man would be able to fashion the weapons they were going to need. It seemed quite likely Lachann would have to bring in an armorer and a good gunsmith. He’d expected no less. But parts were always needed, and a good blacksmith was invaluable.

The smithy’s attention shifted when Anna walked past him, carrying a load of linens in the opposite direction of the barracks with the black and white cat following her.

“How long has the armory been dormant?” Lachann asked Catrìona.

“Oh,” she stopped to think. “It has been several years. Ten, at least.”

“And your blacksmith?” he asked. “Do you know if he ever fashioned swords for your father?”

Catrìona shook her head. “I don’t believe so. Mungo Ramsay is not the . . . well, he’s not exactly the cleverest of men.”

But he was large and strong, judging by his stance and the dense muscles in his arms. He watched Anna’s progress across the courtyard unabashedly.

“Does he know why I’m here?” Lachann would have thought the man would come over and make himself known to the future laird.

Catrìona shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Lachann opened the door of the barracks and allowed Catrìona to step inside before him while the rest of the men waited outside. He lit a lamp near the door and looked at the row of beds that were ready for use.

“I hope it meets your men’s needs.”

“Aye. It appears more than adequate.”

“Good,” she said, though she appeared slightly put out. Mayhap because they’d not yet had a chance to be alone. Lachann could only hope that was so.

“You can let Graeme or Alex know if there is anything else you need,” she said.