Highlander Unchained (7 page)

Too ambitious by half, even for her. Although if she was locked in here much longer, she might be willing to take her chances.

A trunk containing an extra plaid, a brush, and a small hand mirror had been placed at the foot of the bed. Not long after she’d arrived, a tub had been sent up along with a change of clothing to replace her mud-and blood-spattered dress. In quality, it was not much better than the gown it had replaced, but at least it was clean. She’d cleaned her satin slippers as best she could with a small brush, but for more reasons than one, she wished she’d worn her new leather boots.

She finished pulling the brush through her hair and headed for the door. The drawbar had been removed, preventing her from locking
him
—or anyone else, for that matter—out. Swinging it open, she was shocked to find empty space.

“Good morning, my lady.”

She turned to her jailer, who stood waiting to the side of the door. “Well, aren’t you going to block the doorway, Alasdair?” she asked, referring to the little dance they engaged in every time she tried to leave.

He smiled, revealing the crooked grin that despite his advanced years still managed quite a bit of roguish charm. “Nay, not today, my lady.”

She turned to the other guardsman. “Is it to be you today, then, Murdoch?”

He shook his head and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Murdoch couldn’t be much older than eight and ten, and despite his towering height, he seemed flustered by her presence. “Nay, my lady.”

“Then I am free to go?”

Alasdair’s grin deepened, a twinkle in his well-lined eyes. “Well now, lass, not
go,
exactly. The laird has requested you join him in the great hall to break your fast.”

She crossed her arms, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two men. “Oh, has he now?” She tapped her foot. Her summons had apparently come. She was tempted to ignore it but was too desperate to leave the room to allow stubbornness to interfere. “It’s about time.” And with her shoulders pushed back as regally as any queen, she alighted through the open doorway and proceeded down the winding stairs.

As in most tower houses, the great hall was on the first floor. Perhaps she should just call it a hall. There was nothing “great” about the room at all. Austere was an understatement. Wooden floors strewn with rushes, plastered walls, wooden-beamed ceiling, a fireplace, iron sconces to hold the candles, about four arrow slits sufficed for windows, half a dozen wooden tables and benches, and that was it. No dais, no tapestries, no oil lamps, no rugs, no decoration of any kind.

And standing before a window with his back toward her was the laird himself. The Chief of Maclean of Coll. How could she have not realized who he was right away? Even his stance was commanding. But also wary. Much like the man, she suspected.

He turned as she entered the room. The sun beamed down on his head, catching the occasional strand of gold in his dark brown hair. She resisted the urge to draw in her breath. She couldn’t, however, prevent the sudden spike in her pulse. It seemed from the first, this man had a strange effect on her that had not lessened in the intervening days. Her body felt blanketed with awareness. That the mere sight of him should affect her was troubling. But perhaps not surprising. He was an impressive man.

Strong and dangerously handsome. In the stark light, the hard lines of his face seemed carved from stone. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he was a force to be reckoned with. Never had she met a man whose physical strength blended so seamlessly with his appearance. Or one who was so undeniably masculine, almost primitive in his appeal. He dominated his surroundings, radiating an unmistakable aura of authority and command that had been forged by generations of the proud warriors and leaders who had come before him.

He was everything she’d been taught by her mother to revile: a Highlander, a warrior, and a chief. Yet she didn’t revile him at all. It was disconcerting, appalling even, but she could not deny it. Lachlan Maclean wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

In the Lowlands, Highlanders were looked on as rough, uncouth brutes. The wild savages of the North. A sentiment perpetuated by King James, who referred to his Highland subjects as “barbarians.” Her mother had spoken of proud, cruel, warlike men incapable of emotion. Men who thought themselves kings over their own fiefdoms.

In some ways, the prejudice was warranted. Lachlan Maclean, like her brothers, was inalienably proud and more primitive—less refined—than Lowland courtiers. An authority unto himself. He’d abducted her, after all.

But he hadn’t ravished her. Nor could she forget that he’d seemed to purposefully avoid killing any of Lord Murray’s men. Hardly the bloodthirsty warmonger she’d come to expect. Indeed, even though she’d stabbed him, he’d treated her with surprising courtesy.

His strength, control, and blatant sensuality were difficult to ignore.

Paradoxically, the very things that should repel her were the very things she found appealing. On a base level, she was deeply attracted to this man who’d abducted her. The type of man she’d avoided most of her life. But acknowledging the truth only hardened her resolve to leave this wretched place. She would never let him know the effect he had on her.

He held her gaze as she approached. As she drew closer, she could see that something was different. He looked tired and slightly pale. As if he’d been ill.

The realization struck. He
had
been ill. He hadn’t been ignoring her; he’d been recovering from his wound. He was human, after all.

She halted a few feet away from him, plastering her hands to her side before she did something embarrassing like reach out and touch his arm. “You’ve been unwell.”

His already gruff expression hardened. “No. I’m sorry you were confined to your room, but I had other matters to attend to.”

He lied. He was not the type of man to explain his actions. Obviously, he was too proud to condescend to weakness of any kind.

The same sense of regret hit her as when she’d watched him with the hot blade. She hadn’t meant to…

But she had. She’d wanted to hurt him. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilt or regret, but the truth was that it bothered her to be the source of his pain.

“I’m…” It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Her cheeks flooded with heat.

“You defended yourself well, Flora,” he said, acknowledging her discomfort. “The fault was mine. I underestimated you. But only once. Never again.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a warning. “Come, sit.” He indicated a seat at what must be the laird’s table, because it had carved wooden chairs instead of benches.

She considered refusing, but when platters of steaming bread and beef started appearing, she thought better of it. She’d hoped for an improvement from the meals brought to her room, but the fare wasn’t much better down here—bland and overcooked. At least it was hot.

They ate in silence, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but it made her self-conscious.

Finally he spoke. “You’ve been well treated?”

She finished chewing the bit of coarse brown bread that could use more salt and considered him over the rim of her ale. The combination of his dark, almost black hair and blue eyes was truly striking. She was glad to see that her nail marks across his cheek had nearly healed. “If you consider being locked in a small room for three days well treated. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my wits.”

Her response seemed to annoy him. “I’m afraid we do not have time for masques and revels at Drimnin.”

Clearly, he thought her just another spoiled courtier, and his barb was not without effect. The differences between their lifestyles could not be more divergent. But this time, she hadn’t been criticizing him. She ventured another glance and saw his frown. “That’s not what I meant. I hardly expect courtly entertainment, but I doubt even Highland women sit in their rooms for hours on end with nothing to do.”

He leaned back in his chair and paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re right, they don’t.”

The concession surprised her. Prompted by the apparent thaw in his temper, she decided to broach what had been on her mind for the past few days—leaving. “Have you written to my brother?”

He lifted a dark brow. “So anxious to go? But you’ve only just arrived.”

She ignored his attempt to defray the question. “Have you?”

“A messenger left for Coll not long after we arrived.”

“And has Hector acceded to your demands?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor will he.”

“We’ll see.”

He sounded so confident. But she wasn’t so sure. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to her. “What will you do with me if he does not agree?”

He held her gaze with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. “He’ll agree.”

“But what if he does not? You can’t keep me here forever. Eventually someone will realize I’m missing.”

“Eventually. But I would wager that you’ve bought me quite a bit of time with your attempted elopement.”

“What do you mean?”

“I rather doubt that you left Holyrood in the middle of the night without explanation.”

Her face fell. She thought of the notes she’d written to both Rory and her cousin Argyll that she’d gone to see Hector. Notes that would prevent anyone from looking for her for some time.

But how had he guessed?

Hector would know soon enough, but he was on ill terms with both Argyll and Rory. Her only hope was that William would alert her cousin to what had happened. But then there would be some explaining to do. Would he risk it?

The laird was watching with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Why have you never married?” he asked suddenly. “You are certainly of age.”

Her body went rigid. “I hardly think that is any of your concern.”

His gaze swept over her face and down her breasts. “You are pleasing enough.”

She gasped. Did that suffice for a compliment? Blandishments were obviously not his forte. But it wasn’t the lack of gallantry that stung. He could have been inspecting her like a horse at market. The simple gesture summed up everything she despised about her position. She was flesh and blood, but no one would ever see her as such. All they saw was the wealth and connections she would bring them. And this man saw her only as a bargaining chip.

“You are too kind.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “But what has marriage to offer me that I don’t already have?”

There were many ways to answer that question, but having care for her innocence, Lachlan refrained from the blunt one. One glance at that beautiful face and lush body, and he need look no further for a reason why the lass should be wed: swiving. And lots of it.

It had been the foremost thing on his mind since she’d walked into the room. When he’d had to force himself not to blink to see if she was real—there was such an ethereal, almost fey quality to her beauty. The face that had haunted his dreams while he recovered from his wound was even more breathtaking in the flesh. There was no mud to obscure her features or horrible cap to hide her hair.

The old gown he’d borrowed from his sister was a shade small and clung to her breasts and hips, emphasizing the seductive curves of her body. Her long blond hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the sun in a golden halo of light. Freshly scrubbed cheeks revealed the translucence of her pale skin, a luminous contrast to sea blue eyes framed in thick dark lashes and to her bold red lips.

It was her mouth that was driving him mad. Filling his mind with dark, erotic images. Her lips were soft and wide with a deep, sensual curve, highlighted by a tiny naughty dimple on one cheek. He thought of how close he’d been to kissing her and regretted the forbearance that had only increased his hunger. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, especially when he wanted something. And he wanted Flora MacLeod. With a force that sent a surge of heat rushing through his veins.

Tearing his gaze from her mouth, he realized she was waiting for his response. Though she’d spoken derisively, Lachlan heard the underlying challenge in her question. What
did
marriage have to offer her? Stretching his legs out in front of him, he leaned back in his chair and took a long draught of ale. “Obviously you have no need of connections or additional wealth.” He wished he could say the same.

She lifted a finely arched brow, surprised that he was taking her question seriously. “Obviously.”

“Hmm…” He paused, considering. “May I presume that love is too trite a reason?” Although in his experience, young women—his sisters included—thought of nothing else.

“It’s as good as any, I suppose. Though perhaps not a practical one. One may wait a lifetime for such an occurrence—if it happens at all.”

Her answer surprised him. He would have thought her pragmatic like him. Romantic love had no part in his decision to marry, simply because he would never allow emotion to influence his decisions. Love was for other people. His devotion and loyalty belonged to his clan and to his family. No one woman would ever change that. And certainly not this one. He was too old to confuse lust with love.

She would bring him much. But love wasn’t part of the bargain.

But Flora was not wholly without illusions of romantic love. He filed the knowledge away for later, when it might be helpful. First he needed to understand the way she thought, before he decided how best to approach her with his offer. He hadn’t told her of his intentions from the first, because he knew she would be too angry to see reason. And he’d been warned of her contrariness. But he would do whatever it took to secure her agreement to marry. When he played, he played to win. He hadn’t survived the years of attack by shirking from doing what was necessary.

He held her gaze. “Then what of passion as a reason to marry?”

He thought a tinge of pink appeared upon her cheeks, but if she was embarrassed, her response gave no hint of the fact. “I do not believe one is a prerequisite for the other.”

The flash of anger hit him swift and hard. Had she and that popinjay…? The mere thought filled him with rage and a feeling of incomprehensible possessiveness. Why the lass’s innocence was important to him, he didn’t know. Simply that it was.