He stood as she neared. Their eyes met. The memory of that heated moment in her room flared full force between them. She was remembering it, too. The sudden pinkening of her cheeks gave her away. With a slight gesture of his hand, he indicated for her to take the seat beside him.
Gilly, who was seated on his other side, spoke first.
“You look beautiful, Flora.”
The longing in his sister’s voice hit him hard, angering him. A resplendent Flora forced him to confront what he could not give his sisters.
“Thank you, Gilly.” She gave him a sidelong glance, as if seeking his approval.
He looked her over appraisingly. “We’ve been waiting.”
Her cheeks flushed hotter, and he could swear he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes. “I came as fast as I could. Morag is not experienced with this type of clothing, and I usually have two maidservants to help me dress.” Before he could respond, she added, “I’m not criticizing, simply pointing out that donning a gown like this is not a simple matter.”
He eyed her carefully. “I can see that.”
A delicate frown marred her lovely features. Tiny lines appeared between her brows. He felt a strange urge to rub them away with the pad of his thumb. But his finger would be too rough and unwieldy on such baby soft skin.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have worn it. The gown you provided for me upon my arrival is more appropriate.”
She was self-conscious, he realized. Lachlan felt a stab of guilt. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t provide such finery for his sisters.
“You look fine,” he said gruffly.
Her eyes danced with amusement. “Why, that sounded almost like a compliment,” she exclaimed with exaggerated surprise. “If you go on like this, that silver tongue of yours will make the bards weep with envy.”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. The lass had a dry wit. “I’ll remember that and try not to get carried away.” She returned his smile, and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the shared moment of camaraderie.
She glanced around, looking down the table. “Where’s Mary?”
His smile fell. “She wasn’t feeling well. She asked to take her meal in her room.”
Flora’s eyes lit with concern. She put her hands on the table as if she intended to stand up. “Is she ill? Perhaps I should check on her?”
He covered her hand with his, immediately conscious of how small and soft it was under his. He’d acted unconsciously but realized it was a possessive gesture. And a strangely intimate one. The simple touch of his hand had forged a surprisingly strong connection.
“She’s fine,” he assured her. “I’m sure she’ll be recovered by tomorrow.” At least he hoped she would be. He thought of the tearstained face that had stared at him as if he were the cruelest person on earth. As if he’d just stepped on the tail of her favorite puppy. He shook it off. Mary was young, she would recover.
Flora stared at his hand, a strange expression on her face. Did she feel it? This odd connection between them?
She gazed up at him. “That reminds me. Who’s John?”
He tensed but recovered quickly, removing his hand. The connection was severed. “My younger brother.”
She smiled. “I thought so. I overheard a few men on the staircase on the way to the hall, but when I asked, they refused to say. Strange, isn’t it?” She looked around. “Why have I not been introduced to him?”
His heart thumped. “He’s not here right now.”
“Oh. Will he return soon?”
“Yes.” As soon as we are married.
Brought harshly back to reality, he lifted his hand to signal the beginning of the feast and an end to their conversation. Platter after platter of food made its way through the crowded hall. Food he could ill afford, since Hector had stolen a great number of his cattle—and thus his ready source for silver. But foolishly, he’d wanted to impress her. But all it had taken was one look at that gown to realize how difficult that would be. Still, he’d take a Highland fèis over a masque at court any day.
But would she?
He watched her as they ate, talking animatedly with Allan on her other side and Gilly, who sat beside him. She seemed to be enjoying herself. But who could read the mind of a lass?
“You’re glad you came tonight?”
Flora’s gaze slid to the handsome man beside her. She’d been achingly aware of him all throughout the meal. The powerful physical effect he had on her was disconcerting. A simple brush of his wide shoulders or muscular arm against her as they ate and her heart went into palpitations. One look at that wide mouth, implacable jaw, and rugged, battle-scarred face and her stomach flipped. She’d seen many handsome men before, but none had ever affected her so…completely.
He wasn’t classically handsome by most measures. His features were too hard, his jaw too square, his nose crooked from having been broken more than once; but the overall result was of roughly hewn masculine beauty. There was something decidedly threatening about that raw power. Her attraction stemmed from a place inside her that she’d never felt before. A deep, sensual place.
She dropped her eyes from his penetrating gaze, afraid he would realize what she was thinking, and considered his question.
Truth be told, she was enjoying herself. It was difficult not to. Although the feast had lasted for many hours, the room still buzzed with the festive sounds of celebration and easy laughter. There was something comforting and relaxed about it. Homey. She couldn’t help but compare it with the rigid formality of court.
They’d been entertained by the magical sounds of the pipers and the fanciful tales of the seannachie. But watching the warriors—and Mary’s Odin in particular—perform the intricate sword dance had been the high point for Flora. The ill-prepared food was perhaps the only complaint, but the people seemed to be having too much fun to notice. And with the copious amounts of ale flowing through the hall, most were too soused to mind.
Then there was the laird himself. At dinner he’d been attentive, but not obtrusively so. He’d kept the conversation light and deftly brought her in by asking her opinion on the music, or the bard, or the dancing—she was relieved he hadn’t asked her about the food. He hadn’t set out to charm with false flattery like most men, but had really talked to her. And listened. She’d never noticed before how rare that was. He was interesting and smart and appallingly adept at getting her to talk without revealing much about himself.
Thankfully, he’d appeared to have forgotten about her trick with the fulmar oil.
But watching him interact with his clan was perhaps the most illuminating. At one point or another throughout the long meal, it seemed as if most of the castle had approached the table to exchange words with their laird. Seeking his advice on such far-reaching subjects as a dispute between two men over a small plot of land, the weather, or the price of cattle. They treated him with deference and respect, but also with something else: love. He had the utter command of a chief, but he’d clearly earned it with respect and not fear.
One man in particular stood out. A young warrior she’d never seen before, probably not much older than her four and twenty years. With tears in his eyes, he thanked the laird for the news of his babe. A son born by his wife, who was being held at Breacachadh. Flora imagined it was no small matter to get word of the child. If it surprised her that the laird would concern himself with the lives of his men, it did no one else. And that, she supposed, spoke volumes.
She’d noticed quite a few of the women staring at him with interest. One raven-haired woman in particular didn’t bother to hide her inviting glances. Actually, the look she cast him was more than an invitation, it was possessive. And it bothered Flora more than it should have.
Unexpectedly, she found herself drawn to this gruff chief who watched her with a disarming intensity. Who looked at her like a woman and not a prize.
The Laird of Coll was undoubtedly a hard man. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was as if the sun broke
through the clouds. And he was smiling right now as she considered his question, knowing very well that she was enjoying herself.
But she hadn’t quite forgiven him for forcing her to come here tonight.
“If you mean am I happy that you ordered me to dine with you, no. But your pipers are wonderful…and the dancing was magnificent. So, yes, I’m enjoying myself.” He stared at her with that hard, impenetrable expression on his face—the expression she was becoming quite used to. Perhaps she was even becoming good at deciphering it, because she thought he looked pleased. He wanted her enjoyment. But why? Could he be…wooing her? The thought didn’t offend her as much as it should. She leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know, you might get more bees with honey.”
Something sparked in his gaze. His eyes fell to the low bodice of her gown and to her breasts, of which she’d unwittingly given him a very good view. Though he’d had more than a view earlier, and the realization that he was thinking the same thing made her nipples harden and her body tingle with awareness.
“What kind of honey do you have in mind, Flora?”
Her body heated, responding to the unmistakable innuendo of his tone that she didn’t fully understand. “Anything not phrased as an order.”
He leaned back, a wry set to his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind. But I’m used to giving orders.” His mouth moved into a full-fledged grin. “I’m just not used to being disobeyed.”
The impact of his jaunty smile slammed straight into her chest. “You should smile more often.” She spoke her thoughts aloud.
He looked at her intently. “Why?”
She shrugged and tried not to blush. She could hardly tell him how handsome and how much younger it made him look. Initially, she’d thought him in his late thirties, but now she suspected he was quite a few years younger. “It doesn’t make you look so…imposing.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, a perplexed expression on his face. Flora tried not to gape at the way the muscles in his arms bulged. Or how his shirt stretched across his broad chest. Dear Lord, he was strong. There was not one inch of him that did not appear to be chipped from stone.
“I’m a Highland chief. I am imposing.”
She grinned, realizing he was half teasing her. Then a shadow crossed his face. “There has been precious little reason for joy of late.” He looked around the hall meaningfully. She didn’t need to look to know what he was thinking. The lack of ornamentation, the threadbare clothing of his clansmen, the sorry state of the castle. But she also saw the happy faces and inherent pride of the people around her. And of their leader. “The floods and the feud with your brother have taken their toll,” he finished.
“Because Hector has captured your castle?”
She saw him tense, almost imperceptible, but she’d been watching him closely. “Yes.”
But she sensed there was something else. The feud with Hector was about more than just his lands and castle.
His finger slid over the silver-encrusted goblet. The silver plates and cups were the only visible signs of wealth in the otherwise sparse keep—she couldn’t help thinking a few hangings and flowers would do much to lighten up the place. The soft motion of his finger entranced her for a moment. His hands were like the rest of him: big, rough, and strong. Scarred by battle, they were a warrior’s hands. A man’s hands. Lord Murray’s hands had been pale white and as soft as hers.
She swallowed, remembering the gentle touch of those rough, callused fingers on her breast. She’d been shocked when he’d touched her through the drying cloth, but also undeniably aroused. Her body had softened with a wave of shimmering heat and an indescribable heaviness that had made her legs weak.
The way he’d been looking at her…still looked at her. As if he could see beneath her clothes. There was an intimacy between them that had been created in that room tonight. He’d wanted her and hadn’t bothered to hide it. The only question was whether he would do something about it.
She didn’t want to think about her own reaction if he did. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him, but she would not be seduced by her jailer, no matter how handsome—or how tender his kiss. “How did the feud with Hector begin?” she asked.
“You know so little of your brother?”
She felt her cheeks go hot and fought the instinctive defensiveness roused by his question. She’d never wanted to become involved in the endless bickering and shifting alliances of the Highlands, but he had a way of making her feel ashamed for having ignored a part of her heritage for so long.
“We were never close. He’s over twenty years older than I.” She paused thoughtfully. “My mother didn’t talk about him much. I think she blamed him for something, though they reconciled at the end.” Before she died. Flora looked down at her plate so that he would not see the emotion in her eyes. When the wave of longing passed, she looked back up to find him still staring at her. So he wouldn’t think her disloyal, she added, “But whenever our paths have crossed, Hector has always been kind to me.”
He looked as though he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Why did he take your castle? Why do you hate each other so much?”
“There has been bad blood between the clans for years. I was not yet ten when my father died. Hector saw my father’s death as an opportunity to try to take the lands that they have coveted for some time. He chose the day of his burial for an attack. What he didn’t count on was my uncle defeating him. Soundly, I might add.” And bloodily, she realized. “Even though we were greatly outnumbered and admittedly ill prepared. The people blamed the curse for your brother’s loss,” he finished.
“But that doesn’t make any sense. Macleans fought on both sides. How do they account for the fact that it was Macleans who won the battle?”
He shook his head. “The invocation of the curse isn’t rational. You’ll find that it is a convenient scapegoat whenever something goes wrong. Like the unusual years of heavy flooding we’ve had on Coll.”
She gave him a long, steady look. “You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you.”
Her observation had surprised him. He appeared almost uncomfortable. “I never expected being chief to be easy. It is my birthright and my duty.” And an integral part of his identity, she realized. “I will do anything to protect and preserve it.”
It sounded like a warning, but she let it go, returning to the feud. “And so after his defeat at the hands of your uncle, I assume Hector sought revenge.”
Lachlan nodded. “My uncle was murdered seven years later.”
“And you blame Hector?”
His jaw clenched. “I do, though I cannot prove it. But the men who were responsible for the deed were punished.”
Flora didn’t need to ask what he meant. They’d been killed. By his hand. He was watching her as if he expected her to challenge him for brutality, but she didn’t. Nor would she. Justice was justice. And in the Highlands, it was meted out swiftly and succinctly.
“And so he took your castle? But wouldn’t that be admitting complicity in the death of your uncle?”
“Hector doesn’t need a reason for treachery. But justice for my uncle’s murders took place many years ago. No, he’s raided my lands and stolen my castle to try to force me to his bidding. Something that will never happen.”
He said it with such loathing and steely determination that it took her aback, giving her a glimpse of the ruthless Highlander her mother had warned her about. Gilly’s admonition about his single-minded resolve also came back to her.
Flora felt torn. Her loyalty belonged to her brother, not to this man who’d kidnapped her. But she couldn’t ignore what she’d learned of Lachlan Maclean. He seemed fair. Except, apparently, when it came to her brother.
“Why?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t join his feud against the MacDonalds. He expected me to bow to him as chief. I refused.”
Flora wrink
led her brow. She knew enough to know that the Duart branch of the clan was descended from an older brother, the Macleans of Coll from a younger. “But he’s right. Duart is the chief branch of the Clan Gillian. It is your duty to bow to him. It’s the Highland way.”
His entire body went rigid. This time, his steely control could not mask his fury. “And you’re an expert on the Highland way? A girl who avoids her kin and her home? Coll has been a barony for over two hundred years. I will not pay him calps, nor will I send my men to fight his battles. I’m the Laird of Coll, a free baron. A chief in my own right. I don’t owe allegiance or anything else to Hector.”
“So you choose feudal law over the Erse Brehon Law? That is an unusual position for a Highlander to take.”
“Feudalism has been a part of the clans in Scotland for centuries. The Macleans of Coll haven’t considered themselves a part of Clan Gillian for a long time. We are our own clan. It was my father’s position. Now it is mine.”
Pride. Was that what this was about? Her mother’s words of warning came back to her: Never trust a Highlander. They are hard men with tender pride who solve problems with their swords. Was her mother right? Had there been years of feuding and killing because of pride?
“But all of this between you and Hector could be settled if you acknowledged him as chief?”
“It is more complicated than that.”
“But is it? Is the feuding worth it? Hector is one of the most powerful chiefs in the Highlands. With at least four hundred fighting men. You probably don’t have a third of that. It’s foolish to battle him. How can you think to defeat him?”
The muscle in his jaw flexed, signaling a warning. She was treading a dangerous path. “Have care who you call a fool, lass. You don’t know what you speak of.”
Her temper flared. “Perhaps not, but I can see the toll it has taken on your clan.” Her gaze swept the hall, this time ignoring the warmth of the revelers and lingering on the crude furnishings and lack of ornamentation. “Take a look around. Your clan is suffering. If you weren’t so busy fighting Hector, perhaps your sisters could be at court.”