The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride (8 page)

Ryan bent closer, the scar across his cheek a dark stripe in the moonlight. Gilda lightly touched its length. “Ye’ve no’ been tilting at bears again, have ye?”

Ryan grinned. “I leave the wild animals to the red-haired Macrory lass who tames them.”

As Gilda’s gaze slid from the scar to Ryan’s amber eyes, her hand stilled against his cheek. “Me?”

“Aye. I saw ye tame a wolf. It clenched my heart to see ye do it.”

“Why did it clench yer heart?” Gilda’s fingers drifted to his chest, twitching the pleats in his plaide over the spot in question.

“Ye are special, and I dinnae want to see ye hurt.”

Her heart gave a lurch. “What is special about me?” Her voice slipped past her lips, scarcely above a whisper.

Ryan lowered his head. “Yer silver eyes.”

His breath was warm on her face and Gilda’s lashes fluttered. She felt his mouth gently touch her eyelids, one and then the other, and she drew back, startled. Her eyes widened as she met Ryan’s slow smile. Her insides churned.

Ryan trailed his fingertips over her cheek. “They are verra special. They tell me what ye are thinking.”

“What…what am I thinking now?”

“That ye would like me to kiss ye again.”

Gilda wanted to deny it, but lying had never been her strong suit. She’d relied on charm and wit to avoid trouble most of her life, and now, when she most wanted to tell him she certainly did not want him to kiss her again, knowing she shouldn’t allow it, she couldn’t form the words.

His gaze lingered on hers then dropped to her mouth—and Gilda melted.

Ryan’s arm slid around her waist as she sagged against him. She lifted her face, waiting for his lips to press against hers. The suspense built unbearably and her heart pounded in her chest.

And then, Ryan kissed her.

* * *

“Ye were missed,” Conn hissed between clenched teeth as Ryan scooted onto the bench beside him.

Ryan leaned his elbows on his thighs, and peered past Conn. His father sat a few feet away, and though he stared straight ahead, Ryan rather suspected his father knew he was there.

“What did ye say?”

“That yer head was botherin’ ye.” Conn turned slightly. “’Twas the truth. Yer head has been addled since ye met the lass.”

“My thanks.” Ryan gave a low snort.

The Macrory laird stood before them, extolling the ravages the pirates laid to the coastline. Ryan’s attention wandered. Pirates always pillaged coastal villages. The Macraigs would be glad for the alliance to help keep the pirates at bay until they were either killed or convinced to find easier game elsewhere.

“The MacEwen’s nephew, Acair, has rallied the scattered clan,” the Macrory stated. “He has no fear of retaliation or war. He encourages us to do battle with him.”

Laird Macraig rose to his feet. “What drives Acair to be so bold?”

“He calls it revenge.”

A murmur arose from the crowd. Ryan swung his gaze around, wondering what he’d just missed.

His father took a step forward and all eyes swiveled to him. “Revenge for what?”

Laird Macrory’s gaze locked on the Macraig laird, and Ryan felt hostility spark between the two men. He sat up straight and his hand drifted to his empty scabbard before he remembered he’d left his sword and other weapons at the door.

“His uncle’s death.”

“Then it has nothing to do with us. Only ye.”

“He has pillaged up and down the coast,” the Macrory pointed out. “He uses his claim of revenge to bind his scattered clansmen together.”

The Macraig snorted. “So, if ye were dead, his lust for revenge would be satisfied and the problem would go away for the rest of us?”

Harsh voices spilled around Ryan as he gaped in disbelief at his sire.

What the hell is he doing?
Ryan cut his eyes to Conn who shrugged, frank curiosity in his expression.

“I thought ye said ye werenae at war with the Macrorys?” his friend asked.

Ryan shook his head, staring at the man he scarcely knew. Surely, his father wasn’t about to decline the offer of help? Any time now the man would nod and give apology for such a brash statement. Tense moments passed as the two lairds glared at each other and speculation charged about the room.

With a feeling of doom, Ryan sighed. “We soon will be.”

Chapter 7

Wooden benches scraped across the stone and tumbled noisily to the floor as men erupted to their feet. Ryan rose swiftly to his father’s side. His abrupt movement brought him directly in line with the enraged Macrory laird’s sight, but it couldn’t be helped. It was too late now to hope to gain the man’s approval where Gilda was concerned. Ryan’s best tactic was to support his father until he could somehow understand what the hell his sire was up to and perhaps minimize the damage between the clans.

Laird Macrory fought visibly to bring his anger under control. Jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with each furious breath, he raised a hand for silence. His captain, a large, burly man who’d probably never been gainsaid since acquiring his impressive height, stepped to the laird’s shoulder, lending support.

Slowly, the room retreated beneath their demanding glares. Ryan released a deep breath of relief and offered a quick prayer of thanks. Around him men righted benches and reclaimed their seats. Ryan longed to take his own seat and listen to what the Macrory laird had to say, but his father remained standing, chin jutted outward in defiance. Short of tugging his sleeve to encourage him to sit, hoping for cooperation he wasn’t likely to get, Ryan had no choice but to remain at his side.

“’Tis well known ye are an outsider, Laird Macrory.” Disdain colored Laird Macraig’s voice. “’Twas a ruinous day a Scott laid claim to Macrory land. A man who gave up his own clan to rule another for the king.”

“I have always been loyal to the crown, and the Macrory people are kin. We dinnae share a name when I arrived here, ’tis true, but I am proud to be called Macrory.”

A murmur swept the crowd again. Heads nodded in approval. Then again, more than half the men in the room were Macrorys, and all apparently quite loyal to their laird. Ryan’s blood quickened. Were they to bring the old feud into the open?

His father took a half-step forward. “Ye had no real claim to this land or clan.”

Laird Macrory’s eyes flashed. “The king sent me here at the auld laird’s request.”

“We would have done better without ye here. I would have married the daughter and forged a strong bond between the clans.”

“The auld laird had his reasons for denying yer offer, as ye well know. And Scaurness has prospered these past years even with an
outsider
at its head.”

Tension bristled around the room. Ryan’s blood ran cold at the animosity between the two lairds. Murmurs rose in the room like the buzz of angry bees.

“Enough!”

Heads swiveled at the new voice. A heavy-set man with a bull-like neck climbed to his feet. Torchlight glinted from his partially bald pate above a retreating hairline, and thick tufts of red hair peeked from the neckline of his leine. With a glare from beneath bushy brows for both the Macrory and Macraig lairds, he turned to his host.

“I dinnae come here to listen to the twa’ of ye fight over something long since done. The Maclellans have always profited from our alliance with the Macrorys. If the MacEwens are again raiding our shores to avenge such nonsense as young Acair speaks, then we will band with Laird Macrory to see it ended.” Laird Maclellan turned a pointed look on The Macraig. “Whether ye are with us or not.”

Laird Macraig did not break his stare from Ranald Macrory’s face. The animosity between the two men was palpable and Ryan’s throat went dry as he awaited his sire’s next move.

Drawing himself up to a regal height, the Macraig spat, “We willnae be a part of an alliance with a bastard Macrory.” With a swish of his plaide, he turned and left the room, men parting quickly to accommodate him.

From the corner of his eye, Ryan caught a glimpse of burnished red hair and wide grey eyes as Gilda watched him from the shelter of a wide pillar on the edge of the hall.

* * *

Gilda stared in disbelief as Ryan’s gaze met hers and his step did not falter. How could he simply walk away? The plaide draped across his shoulder swayed with each stride and her skin twitched to remember the fine texture of the wool she’d pleated beneath her fingers as he’d kissed her.

The Macraigs disappeared through the double doors of the great hall and into the night. Shouts in the bailey as they called for their horses sounded loud against the stunned silence of the hall. The great doors closed.

Gilda looked over her shoulder. The Maclellan laird remained standing, arms crossed above his broad girth, feet planted wide, as though expecting further challenge. Light from the candles shone on his forbidding visage, and Gilda shivered. The menace radiating from the laird could not be mistaken. She would not like to be the man—or woman—who came against him.

Laird Maclellan faced Laird Macrory. “How do we defeat the pirates?”

Darting looks around the hall and at each other, the men returned to the business at hand. Gilda drew back into the shadows, her heart a sharp ache in her chest at Ryan’s easy betrayal. Panic set in. She needed to escape, to be anywhere but in this room.

Her slippered feet flew up the stairs, a mist of tears veiling her sight, but she needed nothing more than the touch of a hand to the stone wall to guide her.

“Where are ye going, Gilda?”

She gasped and spun in the direction of the voice. She blinked as the twins’ faces peered at her from behind a tapestry.

“To my room. And ye both were to be in bed an hour ago,” she retorted.

“Och, dinnae fuss. We heard the
stramash
. What happened?”

“Never ye mind. Get to bed. The both of ye.”

“We’ll tell Ma ye were down in the great hall.”

Gilda frowned. She was supposed to be confined to the upper hall while the men conducted their business. Her da did not allow unruly behavior or drunkenness in the castle, and men who approached that state were encouraged to recover their wits outside. But when a large number of men from other clans drank and feasted in the great hall, she knew her personal safety could not be ensured if she were so foolish as to wander about unescorted.

She gave the boys a narrowed look and the smallest information possible to garner their cooperation against tattling on her. “There was a disagreement.”

“Was there a fight?” The twins scrambled from their hiding place and jumped up and down the corridor in mock fighting stances. “Was there blood?”

Gilda rolled her eyes and sighed. “There was neither, ye
louns
. They have better manners than ye do.” She made shooing gestures with her hands. “Now off to bed with ye.”

Jamie and Finn stopped their antics and turned to face her. Something in their expressions sent a warning chill up Gilda’s spine.

“Who were ye talking to in the garden?” Finn asked.

Rage overruled the shiver of warning. “How dare ye spy on me? Get out of my sight!”

Jamie piped in. “We saw ye kiss him.”

“Who is he, Gilda?”

“If ye get us some pastries, we won’t tell Ma.”

As her brothers voiced their demands, Gilda rounded on them. “Ye are both horrible! Leave me alone! I dinnae want to see ye again!”

She pushed past them and fled to her room as Jamie grumbled, “She isnae going to get us pastries, Finn.”

Fighting back tears, she slammed the door, leaning against the sturdy frame. Her chest heaved, the air in the room heavy, seemingly too thick to breathe. Gilda darted to the window and pulled open the shutter. Cool, moist air rushed over her face. She tried to shove thoughts of the past hour deep inside her, but Ryan’s curious, amber eyes rose firmly in her mind. Memory of the feel of the hard planes of his chest as she leaned into his kiss returned to tickle the palms of her hands, and she scrubbed them against the rock frame of the window.

Bewildered, Gilda leaned her forehead against the stone and stared blindly into the night. She knew there had not been an alliance between the Macrorys and the Macraigs in many years, but Ryan had sounded so confident he could change things.

Why did she want him to? He was an unabashed rogue. Gilda’s lips curved in a secret smile. He also made her long for him to touch her, which certainly vexed her, but the circle of his arms was an exciting place she’d never dreamed of, and his smiles made her melt. She raised a finger and touched her lower lip. It still quivered from his kiss.

A shout from a guard on the parapet caught her attention and she stared into the bailey below. The yard was empty except for two men who walked unhurriedly from the stables. The Macraigs were gone. Once again Gilda’s heart grew heavy. Had Ryan played her false? Had he meant the sweet words he’d whispered?

Her eyes brimmed with tears. Why did she feel so hollow? What was happening to her?

* * *

Morning sunlight pierced the narrow window. A splash of cool water eased the tightness of her eyelids, swollen from too much crying and too little sleep. Gilda reached for the linen towel hanging from the hook near the bowl. The unexpected dampness of the cloth registered in her sleep-deprived brain as she lifted the towel to her face, then recoiled at the foul odor it contained. She drew back in alarm, noting the discolored areas on the normally white cloth. Gingerly she sniffed the towel. It reeked of rotting fish and salt.

“Finn! Jamie!” Gilda stormed from the room, the abused fabric clenched tight in her fist. “Ma!”

Snorts of barely stifled laughter echoed in the hallway, giving Gilda no indication where the twins were other than somewhere nearby. And that was entirely too close to her this day.

“Ma!”

Riona appeared in her doorway, a finger raised to her lips. “Silence! There are guests in this castle, and ye willnae cause a scene.”

Gilda propped her hands on her hips, unable to soften the anger on her face. “The
louns
in the hall below are fair
puggled
after their meeting last night. I doubt the baying of hundred
cu sith
would move them.”