The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride (7 page)

In a fit of inspiration, Gilda resolved to take special care bathing and dressing before heading downstairs to the great hall to join their guests. With any luck at all, dinner would be at least half-finished before she arrived at the table. She gathered her skirts and pushed up from the stone, brushing dust from her bottom as she strolled to the interior of the castle and to her room.

A bath awaited her, and she halted in surprise as her mother’s maid, Kyla, bustled about the room.

“There ye are, lass. Yer ma wants ye to hurry. Here is a gown for ye, I’ll be back to help ye lace up after ye’ve bathed.”

With a nod of her head, Kyla was gone, Gilda staring after her with a frown. Her plan to dally in her room took a direct hit. Kyla knew Gilda needed no help dressing. The maid’s assistance ensured Gilda arrived downstairs on time.

Finally dressed and coifed to Kyla’s satisfaction, Gilda impatiently shifted in her chair at the table as her mother reached for the flagon of wine and poured some into Gilda’s cup.

Taking advantage of her nearness, she whispered, “I know ye are bored. Try to look less inconvenienced.”

Gilda released a tiny sigh and schooled her expression into one of complete neutrality.

“As soon as the meal is finished, the ladies will retire,” Riona promised.

Spurred by the reminder, Gilda managed a brief smile. She picked at the food on her plate. Cook had created a banquet worthy of their guests. Gilda should know; she’d helped prepare it. But boredom and the telltale effects of filching food as she’d worked in the kitchen, now hampered her appetite.

She studied the room. Men crowded the tables, elbowing each other as they ate. Food vanished at an alarming rate. It was easy to see the fierce warrior seated nearby favored the stewed berries. Gilda watched a fresh purple stain slide from the corner of his mouth and coat his white beard. His bushy eyebrows met in the center of his face like a pair of wooly caterpillars and she forced back a sudden grin.

All the men appeared to be of an age near her father’s. There were few among them to stir the slightest interest in Gilda’s heart. They seemed well-versed in filling their bellies, and how to properly pay their respects to Cook for her efforts. Gilda rolled her eyes as another man pounded a rumbling belch from his belly.

Movement at the doorway pulled her attention from the braw men near her table. The noise level in the room abated as the newcomers entered the room. Loud whispers reached Gilda’s ears and she leaned forward with renewed interest.

“…
Macraigs…
”

A tall, slender man with dark, graying hair approached the laird’s table. His men fanned out behind him, ignoring the remnants of the feast. His features were even, perhaps good-looking, but Gilda hated him instantly. This was the man who’d refused to raise Riona’s bastard daughter. Anger burned inside as she tore her gaze away. He had no right to expect help from the Macrorys. Why had her da invited him here? They could deal with the pirates without engaging the likes of the Macraigs.

Scowling, she cast a derisive glare over the men gathered with him. It was clear from their stance they were uncomfortable in their enemy’s castle.

Gilda’s hands balled into fists on her lap.
Serves them right. Pledging themselves to such a man.
She cut a look sideways at her ma, but Riona sat easily in her chair, giving the Macraig laird her polite attention as he and Ranald exchanged greetings.

Laird Macraig declined the offer of a meal, bowed his head in a small gesture of thanks and turned with his men to find seating in the room. Two young men standing on the laird’s right side came into Gilda’s view. Their gazes raked the head table, and the dark-haired man halted in surprise as their eyes met, his amber gaze wringing a jolt of recognition. Gilda looked quickly from him to the laird and back. Their build and coloring were the same.

He could be none other than Laird Macraig’s son.

Chapter 6

Ryan met Gilda’s stormy gray eyes. Damn, Conn was right. Why did the lass have to be the laird’s daughter? It would be much more satisfying to have no care as to the consequences of their friendship. Or dalliance. Or whatever it was destined to become. And he definitely expected it to become something more than chance meetings on the beach. Despite their tempestuous start, he had been determined to meet the red-haired lass again.

Gilda slid back in her seat and Ryan knew she prepared to rise. He stepped to the table, settling his gaze on her father.

“I am Ryan Macraig, Laird Macraig’s son. Would ye introduce me to yer family?”

Laird Macrory scowled. Ryan waited patiently as the man weighed the prospect of introducing Laird Macraig’s son against an outright refusal. Eyebrows slanted together furiously, the Macrory laird shot Ryan an intimidating look. Ryan’s expression of polite interest did not waver.

Laird Macrory visibly ground his teeth, but spoke evenly. “My lady wife, Riona, and our daughter, Gilda.”

Short, to the point, no elaboration. Ryan checked a grin. No indication the laird would welcome further conversation between his family and the Macraig heir.

Ryan offered a short bow to Lady Macrory. “My lady, I am honored to make yer acquaintance.”

Lady Riona inclined her head. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”

“My lady.” Ryan next slid his gaze to Gilda who stared straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. A moment of silence passed, then Gilda jerked. Had her mother nudged her beneath the table?

Gilda’s mouth barely moved. “The-pleasure-is-mine-I’m-sure.”

This time Ryan couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips at Gilda’s rebellious attempt at civility. He bowed his head briefly.

“Ladies.”

Lady Macrory and the laird dismissed him with a short nod. Gilda bit her lip.

Pivoting on his heel, he crossed the room to Conn’s side.

“Well, did I not tell ye? And ye thought I was daft.” Conn snorted in vindicated mockery. Ryan ignored him and reached for a mug sitting on a tray at the end of the table. He took a fortifying gulp of ale, pleased to find it not watered down. With a nonchalant gesture, he half-turned to view the laird’s table and caught a glimpse of burnished red hair as Gilda vanished into the recesses of the back hall.

He clamped a hand on Conn’s shoulder as he shoved the mug back onto its tray, paying no heed to the ale sloshing over the side. “Stay here.”

“Why?”

Ryan spared his friend an impatient look. “We arrived together. If the laird looks up and sees ye, he may presume I am nearby.”

“Are ye not?”

“Nae.”

“Where are ye going?”

“To find Gilda.”

* * *

Gilda slipped past the guards posted behind the laird’s table and into the back of the hall. She mingled with those busy trundling food and empty platters to and from the kitchen. Her midnight blue gown sparkled with silver embroidery at the low, square neckline and full, belled sleeves, making it difficult for her to blend in with the servants or be of any use in the kitchen where she sought to hide.

She cast a hurried glance over her shoulder and spied a dark-haired young man pushing through the throng behind her. Her heart quickened. Ryan had seen her. Darting to her right, Gilda slipped into the kitchen where organized chaos reigned. Cook directed her perfectly ordered dinner, far too busy to pay attention to someone unable to assist.

Gilda rushed around the edge of the room, managing to make it to the door on the far side of the room before an extended arm effectively blocked her path.

Ryan’s amber gaze met her furious look, but he did not flinch. Standing close, much too close, his hand on the door frame just above her head, he kept her from moving away.

“Remove yerself, sir.”

“Gilda, I would talk to ye.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Most lasses like talking to me.”

Gilda nearly choked. “You arrogant, presumptuous…”

“Och, Gilda, ye know I only tease ye. Let us go somewhere we can talk.”

“I dinnae wish to go anywhere with ye.”

Ryan ducked his head close and whispered, “Ye also dinnae want to create a scene, do ye?”

Gilda peered surreptitiously around the room. Servants’ gazes were beginning to turn her way.

He grasped her hand and tucked it over his arm before she knew what he was doing and led her outside into the garden. Gilda took two steps past the door with him before she snatched her hand away, fully intending on returning to the kitchen.

Ryan smoothly snagged her other hand as she whirled, using her momentum to spin her back around, drawing her close.

“Temper, temper,” he chided in her ear.

Gilda stiffened at his words. “I dinnae wish to walk with ye.” She raised mutinous eyes to his.

He chuckled. “Ye are marvelous, lass. Let us call a truce.”

“Are we at war?”

“I believe we have been at war since we met. Come walk with me. I promise to behave.”

Lifting a brow in disbelief, Gilda at last gave a brief nod. “Follow me.”

* * *

Surprised at her change of heart, Ryan followed Gilda deeper into the garden where moonlight filtered through the leaves and formed intricate patterns on the ground. A thousand stars sparkled against a velvet night sky, but he had eyes only for Gilda.

Her hair, bound by a narrow silver band at her crown, spilled across her shoulders and down her back, sparking fire and gold where the filtered moonlight touched it. Heavy curls swayed like a living thing with each step and Ryan’s skin tingled with the desire to run his hands through the molten strands.

Crossing to a low wooden bench encircling an ancient oak tree, Gilda at last came to a stop and faced him, her expression unreadable. Ryan wondered if she regretted the knowledge of who they were as much as he did.

“Ryan.” Gilda laid a flattened palm against his chest to halt his advance. Unexplainable sparks flew between them, and she dropped her hand to press it against her skirt, casting a startled gaze at him. Ryan stifled the urge to rub the stinging sensation lingering on his skin.

Gilda cleared her throat. “Ryan. We cannae meet again. I dinnae know who ye were, but even so, ’twas wrong for us to expect to see each other again.” Her forthright gaze challenged him.

“Did ye expect to see me again? It seemed to me ye had no intention of it.”

Even in the moonlight, Ryan saw the deepening shade on her cheeks and knew she blushed.

She lifted her chin. “Ye ogled my legs!”

Ryan nodded his head in agreement. “Ye have verra pretty legs.”

Gilda drew back with a hiss of breath. “Ye are a rogue, Ryan Macraig!”

“We have already agreed on this, aye?”

“This meeting tonight ’twas for the clansmen to decide what to do about the pirates, not for ye to seek me out in my home.” Gilda crossed her arms beneath her breasts, shoving them to the squared neckline.

Ryan mumbled the first response that came to his suddenly awkward tongue. “I dinnae know ye would be here.” His tone remained reasonable even as he fought the dryness in his mouth.

“Dinnae stare at me like that.” Gilda dropped her hands as she spun away, and Ryan’s concentration returned with a snap.

“I dinnae know how to act around ye, Gilda Macrory. I know our parents are nae likely to agree for us to meet, but I am willing to ask. To do this right.”

Gilda slowly turned, lifting her gaze to his. “To do what right?”

“To talk to ye. Listen to ye laugh. Watch yer eyes change color when I vex ye.”

Gilda’s quick grin told him he’d scored a point and he smiled. “I am good at vexing ye, aye?”

“Aye.” Her expression remained puzzled. “Do ye like to be around me? Not just to ogle my legs?”

This time Ryan laughed. “I will ogle yer legs any chance I get. I cannae lie to ye. But, aye. I like being around ye.”

Gilda gave him a thoughtful look before strolling to the circular wooden bench, lifting her skirts slightly as she climbed onto its wooden seat. Offering a look from beneath her lashes, she dropped the midnight fabric over her ankles and stepped along the boards, hands outstretched for balance. At the curve of the bench, she grabbed a low limb in a practiced move and swung about.

The maneuver caught Ryan off-guard and, thinking she fell, he lunged forward only to draw to an abrupt halt as she gracefully recovered her footing, and he realized she was quite at home climbing the ancient oak.

Ryan leaned a shoulder against a slender rowan tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye are naught but a well-dressed hoyden.”

Gilda tossed a lofty glare over her shoulder and continued her circuit of the tree. “I am quite unlikely to fall, so ye can stop looking at me so fiercely.”

He lost sight of her on the far side of the enormous tree trunk, but refused to rise to the bait. He would wait for her.

A thump and muffled cry startled him.

“Damn!”

With a start, Ryan pushed away from the rowan tree and was at Gilda’s side in an instant. She half-crouched on the ground, her slippered heel caught in the hem of her gown. Shooting him a quick glance, she frowned as she gave her skirt a final tug. She straightened, smoothing her features into a serene look.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Did ye fall?”

Gilda lifted an eyebrow in indignation. “Certainly not. I hopped down and slipped on the damp grass.”

He let out a sigh. “I believe ye vex me, too, Gilda Macrory.”

“Be that as it may…”

A brisk wind tossed her hair and interrupted her words. She raised a hand to wipe the billowing strands from her face, catching at the silver band threatening to slip from her head. The wind redoubled its efforts, lifting the hem of her gown. With a gasp, Gilda shoved the fabric down.

Ryan stepped close, blocking the churning wind, and Gilda gave him a grateful look. For a moment neither spoke. Ryan leaned closer.

* * *

Dried leaves scurried across the garden, but Gilda was oblivious to their patter. She was sheltered and warm, overly warm in fact, but it was a sensation she’d only experienced near Ryan and it left her head as airy as though she’d drunk too much wine. Perhaps she should pull back, seek a way out of this Macraig man’s spell, but her limbs would not obey her, and she simply smiled.