When Meridene emerged from the companionway, she gave Revas a cold stare, then sought solitude near the bow. He deserved her anger. He intended to combat it with kindness and reason. But now he was momentarily content to simply admire her.
She’d donned the warmest of the cloaks he’d provided, an ankle-length garment of miniver, fashioned with the tanned hides turned inside out. The hides had been worked to suppleness, then dyed a pale leaf green and further embellished with a border of interlocking cinquefoils, the device of the Maiden. The color complemented her forest-hued eyes, and the soft fur accentuated the delicacy of her skin.
She’d braided her glorious black hair and coiled it at the nape of her neck. When a gust of wind whipped around her, she drew up the hood of the cloak and continued to stare at the horizon. Standing just so, she looked like a queen ready to bless a fleet, rather than a wife eager to desert her vows.
Since pledging his troth to her, he’d dedicated every waking hour to unifying Scotland. In contrast, she’d made a vocation of loathing it. Even in her dreams, she cursed her homeland, and when the visions grew too horrid, she cried out in her sleep for help.
Last night she’d awakened him with her screams, but a bolted door had prevented him from comforting her. Soon he’d lie beside her, and when those dark dreams visited her, he’d hold her in his arms and face the demons with her. In their waking hours, he’d bind her to the Highlands again and teach her to love the people who awaited her return.
His heart ached for the young Maiden who’d been so mistreated that she hated her country. Revas prayed that he could make her feel safe, for he believed her hatred stemmed from that fear.
With a tenderness that was bittersweet, he admitted that he revered her, too, and overmuch, for he grew distressed to see her so unhappy at the thought of returning home. She had a right, he was certain, for her memories were painful and her experiences ghastly. His abduction must seem horrid to her in the extreme.
Life had been cruel to his beautiful Scottish princess, and while he could not undo the past, he could assure her future. At his side, she would prosper, and in return, she would ease his loneliness and help him achieve his destiny. She’d reign over the Highlands with the skill of the first Maiden, her namesake. Matching the prowess of that woman’s mate promised a challenge that Revas welcomed. Oh, yes. They were in for a merry time, he thought with a smile.
When he’d looked his fill, he approached her. Taking her arm, he said, “Good day, my lady.”
She jerked out of his grasp. “Worry not that I contemplate jumping into the sea. I will not forfeit my life for Scotland.”
Resigned that he’d made no progress, Revas started again. “For what, then, will you risk your life?”
She turned her face to the wind, her eyes glittering like emeralds in the sun. “For the chance to return to England.”
“Achieving your destiny and returning to England are different sides of the same coin.”
Her delicate brows arched in confusion, and she tilted her head to the side. “You’ve become a Highland philosopher. How singular.”
The insult bounced off Revas like pebbles hurled at a battle shield. Reminding her of her duty had produced drastic results. He must guide her, steer her gently, then lead her where she truly wanted to go. “Nay. ’Tis only that I had not expected you to deprive yourself of volition. I expected more intelligence.”
On a half laugh, she scoffed. “You’ll make a fine king of the Highlands. The people deserve a trickster like you.”
He grinned, but his mind was a tangle of doubts. He had truly thought flattery would draw her out. A foolish error on his part. “Does that mean you’ll get me the sword?”
“No. But I relish seeing you delude yourself.”
Be patient, he told himself. She was justified in her anger, and he faced certain defeat in challenging her again. Tricking her was something else altogether. “I anticipate a much more rewarding association with you.”
She gave him a withering glare. “Then you have a perverse imagination.”
Sensing that she tiptoed close to his verbal trap, he threw out the bait. “Because I ask that you weigh your options?”
Peering over the side, she followed the progress of a family of seals. “Weigh my options? I cannot, for they were not of my choosing.”
“Options seldom are, else we’d never have the supreme joy of facing a quandary.”
She peered up at him, her interest seriously engaged. He’d forfeit his favorite retreat to Sheriff Brodie for a conversational reply from her.
“Do you embrace strife, Revas?”
Good-bye, hunting lodge, he thought, and said what was in his heart. “I’d rather embrace you.”
She blushed, and he held her gaze, even when she would have looked away. Come out and play, Meridene, he silently willed her.
“No.”
At least she hadn’t said never. He must be making progress.
Ready to give back to her, he relaxed. “I’ve forgotten the question.”
The fur lining of her cape fluttered around her face, the snowy miniver a perfect foil for her jet eyelashes. She almost smiled. “You were trying without success to get me to weigh my options.”
He wanted to whoop with joy. He’d led her exactly where he wanted her to go. “Scotland is an option.”
She stiffened. “An unacceptable one.”
“How do you know? You haven’t set foot in the Highlands in thirteen years.”
She touched her breastbone. “And I have thrived.”
She had, indeed. Now he intended to see her prosper. “Do you possess a mount, Meridene?”
Confusion lent an earthy aspect to her regal beauty. “Yes.”
“Did you select the horse yourself?”
“Of course.” She stared up at the lookout. “It did not fall out of the sky.”
“If I told you a fine mare was available for purchase, if I sang her praises and extolled her virtues, would you not be curious to judge for yourself? Or would you reject the beast out of hand?”
She faced him squarely. “If you recommended the beast, I would reject it out of hand.”
With regret, he admitted the small defeat. But he’d never been accused of cowardice. “Your mind is narrow.”
She huffed. “Your ploy is obvious.”
Suddenly enjoying himself again, he leaned against a water barrel. “Enlighten me, then, as to my ploy.”
“ ’Tis simple. Now that you’ve taken me captive, you will ignore the cruelty of your actions. You will take me to your home and wait me out. You think to woo me with your charm and enthrall me with your masculine appeal.”
He couldn’t help saying, “So you think I am appealing?”
On a half laugh, she said, “I’m angry, Revas, not blind.”
He savored the compliment, for he instinctively knew she would not often praise him. Not until she fell in love with him. “Do you remember the last time we saw each other?”
“Certainly. You barged into my room and took me against my will.”
Tried patience nicked at his decorum. “Before that time.”
“Yes. I was eight years old and straining to keep from retching on the king of England.”
His heart went out to that valiant girl, but if he showed any weakness, the mature woman would take advantage. He must find a balance between both. “I understand. I expected the king to hang me before sunset.”
Her eyes drifted out of focus. “You did?”
“Aye. I even forgot to wear my shoes.”
Her expression softened. “My apologies. I didn’t see—I hadn’t—”
“Thought about what I was feeling that day?”
“No. I was too ill and beset with worry for myself.”
“Have you thought of it since?”
“Not in a very long time.”
She had, though, and he took that small gift to heart. “You pledged your troth to me. The people of Elginshire witnessed the ceremony.”
“They matter not. What of the people in England whom I call friends?”
“Invite them to visit us at our home.”
Stubbornness had her in its grip. “I do not wish to be your wife.”
“I do not wish to grow old, either,” he said reasonably. “But I cannot stop the clock of time.”
She gave him a quelling look that probably sent servants scurrying for cover. “Age cannot be annulled. Our marriage can.”
Dissolving the marriage was out of the question. “We were chosen for each other.”
She tugged at her gloves. “You want a legend, Revas.”
He couldn’t resist laying a hand on her shoulder. “I want you, Meridene.”
Glancing at his fingers, she murmured, “You are eager to become a husband and father?”
The subject of children was a dangerous one and best generalized for now. “ ’Tis a man’s duty to God.”
A knowing smile curled her lips. “But first you must take up the sword of Chapling.”
Chapling. It was an ancient term, perfectly chosen by the first Maiden of Inverness to symbolize the unity her marriage wrought. The sword had been her gift to her husband. The details of their blessed lives were chronicled in the Covenant. As always, the sentiment made Revas’s chest grow tight. “Aye. I will take up the sword and uphold the legend—”
“Aha! I said as much. ’Tis not me you want, but a prophecy.”
That took the wind from his sails.
“Do not apologize,” she went on. “ ’Tis a meaningless symbol. What would prevent me from demanding the sword and giving it to you in exchange for passage back to England?”
His own ambition, Revas thought. He could rule the Highlands without the ceremonial sword in his scabbard and the Maiden at his side, but he’d have to conquer Clan Macgillivray first. He wanted unity through peace, and he could not achieve it without her. “I’ll tell you what prevents you from demanding your birthright: fear and loathing of your father.”
Said plainly, his truthful comment had the desired effect: She dropped the facade of indifference. Earnestly she said, “You think you know so much, Revas.”
“About you, yes.”
“You would not settle for the sword.” She moved around the barrel and out of his reach. “You would seek to bind me to a land I abhor. You want children of me.”
She had artfully dodged the emotional perils and the very real danger that existed between father and daughter, a skill she’d had thirteen years to master. Only in her sleep did she become that frightened little girl. “ ’Tis cruel to deny a man children.”
Her interest engaged, she pressed on. “Truly, Revas. How badly do you want the sword?”
More than air to breathe, his soul cried. But he guarded the thought. They were conversing civilly; it was a start. “How badly do you wish to return to England?”
Her force of will was palpable. “Enough to continue bartering with you until God stands as witness to this futile exchange.”
Formidable. There was that word again. The too apt description of her inner strength made him rethink his strategy. Were he to strike a bargain with her, he ran the risk of losing and having to honor it. “You plan to await the Second Coming.”
She set her jaw. “Yes, and the Third Coming.”
In the face of her implacable determination, he aborted his original plan. The irony of his predicament gripped him, and after years spent preparing to welcome her home, he must now compel. She had said the people were doomed to disappointment. A woefully poor description; they would be crushed, for he had gone to drastic measures to make a place for her in the hearts and lives of the people of Elginshire.
The brisk April wind fluttered her cloak, and the damp air made ringlets of the wisps of hair that framed her face. The climate suited her well.
“ ’Twould appear,” she trilled, “that we have, as you say, the supreme joy of facing our first quandary.”
He added witty to her list of attributes. “Have you everything you need?”
“How gracious of you to inquire after my needs. Before I answer, you should tell me how long you intend to keep me.”
He couldn’t help but growl, “Leave off, Meridene.”
She blinked in feigned confusion and pulled off her gloves. “Oh, but I’ll gladly leave you to your life, should you leave me to mine.”
Damn Cutberth Macgillivray for his cruel treatment of her. Damn her father for turning her against all Scots. Damn Revas Macduff for living up to her low expectations. “You take pleasure in being stubborn.”
A grin played about her pretty mouth. “You are too quick for me, Revas. I’m but a country girl.”
He laughed. “And I’m chancellor of England.”
She laughed, too, and he wanted to embrace her.
“When will we arrive?” she asked.
“In a few days—as the weather allows.”
“Good. That should give me ample time.”
He grew still and cautious. “Time to what?”
She reached up and laid her hands against his cheeks. Her palms were icy cold, yet her eyes shone with warmth. He could fall into that alluring gaze and follow where she led.
“ ’Twill give me time,” she whispered, “to plan your downfall.”
With that she left him there, the breeze ruffling his hair, her words rattling his composure.
* * *
Two days later, the ship docked at dawn at the seaport of Elgin’s End. Meridene dawdled in her cabin, busying her hands with folding and refolding the fine garments Revas had provided. Her eye was drawn to a rose-colored surcoat embroidered with golden thistles at the hem and neck. The garment fitted her perfectly, as did the contrasting bliaud of dark red linen. Even the shoes, gloves, and underclothing had been fashioned precisely for her.
Ana must have supplied him with the particulars.
Feeling betrayed, Meridene slammed the lid on the trunk, walked to the bulkhead, and peered through the small opening. An endless, churning sea filled her vision.
Since they’d sailed past Aberdeen, she’d grown apprehensive, as if a drum in her chest were beating out a rhythm of foreboding. For the hundredth time she wondered how she could free herself from Revas Macduff. The promise of an eight-year-old girl shouldn’t hold sway, not when she’d been ill and confused and coerced into pledging her troth. The law should free her from any obligation. If not, the church must surely annul the unconsummated marriage.
Unconsummated. Therein lay her escape. She had stayed alone in this cabin during the voyage and searched for a means of thwarting him. Prejudice had colored her thinking; now the truth shone clear. Revas’s influence could not extend to the church. She would seek refuge in the clergy. They would shelter her and appeal to the pope on her behalf. The new King Edward might be persuaded to endorse her cause for an annulment. It was said he had forbidden the clans to unite.
Her fear ebbed and her heart soared.
A scratching noise on the door interrupted her euphoria.
“Who is it?”
“ ’Tis Ana, my lady.”
The informer. Meridene tried to summon dislike for the girl, but in her heart she knew that Ana had simply followed the dictates of her own father and Revas Macduff. With only a little imagination she could picture him cajoling the impressionable girl. Thirteen years ago, he had done the same to another child, a girl whose father had tried to kill her.
Meridene opened the door.
Her pretty features pulled into a worried frown, Ana stepped into the room. She wore a cloak of heavy black wool lined with the subtle tartan of the Sutherlands, a rich pattern of green, black, red, and white. Her fair hair was mussed, her skin chafed from the wind.
“I suppose you hate me.”
“I cannot hate a stranger, Ana, and that is what you are to me.”
Her pert chin puckered with determination. “I only pretended because ’twas necessary.”
The admission that she’d feigned a friendship saddened Meridene. She’d had few friends in her life, and her oldest and closest companions, Clare and Johanna Benison, had been taken from her—one by death, the other by marriage. Like Ana, the other wealthy heiresses at the abbey were all younger than Meridene and prone to seek her out as mentor rather than friend. “You’ve done your part, Ana.”
She made a fist of her gloved hand. “I would give my life for Highland unity.”
Meridene almost laughed. “You err in thinking I will do the same.”
“But you were born to it.”
“While commendable, your enthusiasm ignites not one spark of loyalty in me. Quite the contrary; I envy you, for England is my home. So do not embarrass yourself by belaboring the point.”
Ana touched the symbols on Meridene’s new cloak. “You have forgotten how important you are to us.”
“To us?”
“Aye, to the Highlanders. With you at his side, Revas will bring peace to all of the people above the line.”
The Highland line. A demarcation uncharted on any map, yet etched deeply into the hearts of the Scots. Once her father had ruled the clans from the Frasers in the East to the Macleans in Inverness. Revas Macduff had expanded the territory to include this Sutherland woman and her kin in the Western Highlands.
The extent of his domain was staggering. How much did he know about Meridene? “I confided in you, Ana. Did you tell him all of my secrets?”
She stiffened with umbrage. “You’ll know the answer soon enough.”
Would he give freely of himself to Meridene? Would he cherish her above all else, including Scotland? The obvious answer depressed her, and discussing her private hopes again with Ana served no purpose.
In dismissal, she said, “You have discharged your duty with aplomb, Lady Ana. Fare you well, and God preserve your precious Highland line.”
Like a dog after a flea, Ana refused to leave it alone. “Revas has worked for too long to bring accord to the clans. Why do you hate him so and disparage your own people? They’ve done you no harm.”
No longer the biddable girl eager to follow in Meridene’s footsteps, Ana Sutherland was now a self-assured young woman bent on furthering a cause. Meridene didn’t care; she wanted no part of a people who poisoned their children, then discarded them like old cloaks. “You know precisely why I despise Scotland, and you repeated my every word to Revas Macduff.”
Her eyes pleaded. “He has a goodly heart.”
“Then you worship him!”
“A score of women want him,” Ana taunted.
“So he’s a Highland rogue. I’m delighted to know that there’s enough of him to please a mere twenty women.”
“He wants only you. The English have swayed you otherwise.”
“The English saved me. The Maiden is no more.”
“But you belong to us.”
Meridene gave up the fight; Ana would never understand. “Farewell.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You don’t deserve to be the Maiden of Inverness.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Perhaps you will take up the burden?”
“Burden?” Ana sighed and turned to leave. “You’re selfish and cruel, Meridene.”
Meridene had thought herself immune to verbal blows, but Ana’s parting words stung. Had her life unfolded as it should, Meridene would have gladly fulfilled her duties. She would have wed her father’s choice of husband and ruled as her mother and her kinswomen before her. Politics, not her own wants and needs, had determined the course of her life.
How could people hold one female responsible for the acts of the powerful king of England? She had been a child when the king forced her to wed. She couldn’t pick up her life now—as if she’d simply been away on holiday for thirteen years. The politics of Scotland was a dangerous web of intrigue, spun by men. Legends like that of the Maiden were romantic tales, completely out of tune with the social climate of the day. Men ruled. And that, as Sister Margaret liked to say, was that.
On the heels of that thought, another doubt crept into Meridene’s mind. Had Sister Margaret known of Revas’s plan to kidnap Meridene? No, for the kind nun had been more like a mother than a spiritual advisor. She would not condone such villainy, even if a lawful husband had committed it.
Feeling better, Meridene gathered the brush and comb and other personal items Revas had provided. Just as she donned the beautiful new cloak, he came to fetch her.
* * *
Once on deck, she scanned the scenery. Patches of snow glistened in the shadows, and the hearty bushes near the waterline were still winter-naked. Dozens of fishing boats bobbed at their moorings in the shallow water; others were upended on the beach, their hulls in various stages of repair. Wattle-and-daub houses dotted the shore, and fishing nets were strung between the dwellings, effectively connecting the residents with the commerce of the village.
Ugly memories of another arrival years ago at this place intruded, but Meridene pushed them back; she must not let that dreadful occasion dull her spirit. She would stand up for herself. Someone here would help her.
Behind her, she heard Revas saying his farewells to Ana and her father. As soon as the cargo of iron and salt was unloaded, the ship would take the Sutherlands home to Drumcardle in the Western Highlands.
Eager to disembark and find the church, Meridene made her way down the gangplank. Moments later, Revas followed.
Watching him stroll toward her, she understood why twenty women wanted him. Not that she cared a sour apple. But she was honest enough to admit that he cut a fine figure, especially dressed as he was in a rust-colored tunic and tight-fitting hose. The tooled boots made his legs look inordinately long and perfectly suited his easy gait.
Arms swinging, the wind ruffling his golden hair, he surveyed his kingdom with the eyes of a man accustomed to rule. When his gaze rested on Meridene, she couldn’t stifle a burst of pride for the butcher’s son who’d risen to glory.
“Have I dirt on my face?” he asked.
Flippantly she said, “I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy thinking that you have deceit in your heart.”
His eyebrows flared wickedly. “To be sure, I am beset with wickedness, but it lies in my mind. One night soon I’ll share it with you.”
Night? He was speaking of ravishment. She wondered when he’d find the time, considering he kept so many women. “You needn’t bother. Ana told me.”
“Told you what?”
“All I need to know about you.”
He shrugged, but he was curious. “Shall we?”
A snaggletoothed lad wearing a squire’s tunic approached, leading a golden stallion and a piebald mare. Eyes agog, the boy stared at Meridene. His gaze never left her, even when he bowed from the waist.
Melancholy swept over her. Her mother had always drawn awe-filled glances and gestures of obeisance. Not in years had she thought of the woman who stood by and let an English king snatch her eight-year-old daughter from the nursery and thrust her into danger.
In parting, her mother had put the Covenant of the Maiden in Meridene’s hands. She had always known the book and the responsibility would fall to her; Meridene had been schooled for that very task. Since the day she’d learned to read and cipher, she had begged her mother to let her read the book. But that was forbidden until her wedding day. She had heard the tales of her forebears, but she had not been allowed to read the stories for herself.
“Pray God King Edward protects you, my child,” her mother had said. “You’ll find only heartache at the hands of Highlanders.”
Meridene closed her eyes against a pain that was as fresh as that day so long ago. Not only had her mother forsaken her, but by withholding the Covenant until the day the king took Meridene away, Eleanor had seen to it that Meridene learned little of her forebears. Privacy had been impossible, and when the king had stopped for the night, no one had bothered to give her a light to read by.
After the short journey to Elginshire, Meridene had pledged her troth and yielded the book to Revas for safekeeping. She hadn’t read the chronicles of her grandmothers. She’d been cheated of their experiences and deprived of their good counsel.
“Are you well?” Revas asked. “Would you prefer to ride in a cart?”
His solicitous tone burned like salt on a fresh wound. Meridene stared at the horses and grumbled, “I don’t suppose I have to ask which mount is mine.”
His brown eyes twinkled with glee. “Can you control the stallion?”
She sensed that he wasn’t talking about the horse, but himself. Eager to snuff out his masculine fire, she withdrew her dagger. “With this, I can make him a gelding.”
Although tightly leashed, his resolve shone through. “He might have something to say about that.”
“Yes. I expect him to cry . . . Ouch.”
Interest narrowed his eyes. “My compliments, my lady, and I wonder why you did not choose the red gown.”
He referred to the most striking and costly gown in the trunk—a dress of red velvet trimmed in gold. Under different circumstances she would have cherished the garment.
“The color better suits your mood,” he added.
“Mourning perfectly suits my mood.”
Into the battle of wills, the young squire asked, “Is she truly the Maiden?”
Revas gave her a pointed glance, then cuffed the lad’s head. “In the flesh.”
The boy handed over the reins and raced off shouting, “ ’Tis the Maiden. ’Tis the Maiden come home with our laird.”
“A Macduff! A Macduff!” someone shouted.
Others in the small seaside village picked up the chant. Voices young and old, hoarse and lyrical, called out for their laird, their future king. In answer to their time-honored salute, Revas waved his arms.
He looked happy to be home, and the contrast between her feelings and his made Meridene want to scream.
Over the din, he said, “We suffered a harsh winter.”
“You will suffer a harsher spring.”
Pulling a face, he feigned fright. “At your dainty hands?”
“Mock me if it suits you. ’Twill go the worse for you.”
He sighed in fake resolve. “Then perhaps I should surrender to you now.”
The notion that so powerful a man would yield made her smile. She sheathed her dirk and kept her opinion to herself.
Grasping her waist, he lifted her onto the mare, but did not release her. “Perhaps I should grovel at your feet, Meridene, and beg you to share . . . uh . . . spare my wretched life.”
Her humor vanished. His grip was too strong, his authority too intimidating, and he played with words like a child with a new top. “Perhaps you should hold your tongue.”
Softly he said, “I’d rather hold you.”
“You are holding me.”
His grin was wolfish, and the look in his eye turned keen with awareness. “When I take you into my arms, you will know the meaning of the word. Until then, I will content myself with introducing you to your home and your subjects, my lady.”
Seated on the mare, Meridene had to look down on him. She liked the vantage point, for it gave her a sense of power over so formidable a man. “I, on the other hand, shall content myself with enjoying your downfall.”
He winked, then mounted the prancing stallion and led the way to the road.
Meridene fumed. Like a beast nearing the safety of his lair, he grew confident. Let him wallow in it for now. Soon enough she would disabuse him of his despotic assumptions. She would seek refuge in the church. Then she would flee this godforsaken land of monsters.
With the bannerman in the lead carrying a pennon emblazoned with the rampant lion of Macduff, they retraced the path she had traveled so many years ago.
A well-worn road cut through a forest of bare hardwoods, and an occasional larch and wayward cedar gave the land its color. Up ahead, the road forked, and another dark memory beckoned. Her mind’s eye traveled back in time. The golden lion on the fluttering pennon became a broom pod on a field of red and white. The man beside her became a Plantagenet warrior king, and she was once again a fearful child.
Following the dictates of the past, she guided the mare to the right arm of the fork.
“Not the old road,” she heard someone say.
Old road. Old memory. Her mind retreated further back. She stood in the common room of Kilbarton Castle, her father’s estate. She had pleaded with him, begged him not to let the king of England take her away. Her father slapped her so hard, she tumbled to the floor. Her cheek throbbed. He cursed her, shamed her for her birthright and the power she would one day wield. Towering over her, he wished her dead.
Cringing in childish fear, she begged her mother to intervene.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Meridene?”
Revas Macduff. Not a barefoot butcher’s son, but a skilled warrior, who had returned her to a land of nightmares and cruel memories.
“What’s wrong, Meridene?”
He guided his stallion abreast of her slower mount. She heaved a shaky breath and blinked back tears.
“You’re afraid,” he said, wonderment lacing his words.
Through a veil of sadness, she said, “Leave me be.”
He scooped her up and sat her before him on the stallion. Too distracted to fight, she stared at the barren forest and felt just as lifeless.
Men had taken her future and stolen her chance to have a husband of her choosing and children of her own. With greed and power as their tools, Scotsmen had sentenced her to exile. Yet she had embraced the safety of England—only to have it yanked away at the hands of yet another Scot. This Scot. The Highlander, Revas Macduff.
Her husband.
“What are you thinking, Meridene?”
His soothing tone drew her from the painful reverie, and she felt enveloped in a cocoon of warmth. When had she laid her head on his shoulder? She couldn’t recall. When had she slipped an arm around his waist? She didn’t know.
The quilted velvet of his tunic cushioned her cheek, and his hands caressed her back and her shoulders.
“Please tell me what burdens you so.”
Spoken in a whisper, the entreaty went straight to her heart. Her tears began to fall, and she burrowed closer, seeking warmth and a wealth of unattainable goals.
“You undo me with your sorrow, dear Meridene.”
Dear Meridene. Would that it were true. Girlish dreams of a loving husband and beautiful children faded. The years ahead unfolded, and her life became a bottomless well of clan loyalties, clan feuds, and clan ceremonies. Guards following her everywhere. A child who always observed, rather than participated.
A searing pain squeezed her chest.
“Tell me.”
Gathering her composure, she sniffled. “You’re despotic.”
He patted her back and guided the horse away from their escort. “Aye.”
“You’re thoughtless, same as all Highlanders.”
His lips touched her temple, then her cheek. She shifted on his lap. His powerful thighs tensed.
“I am the same as these Highlanders,” he murmured.
“That’s no defense.”
“Nay, no defense at all.”
“Why are you being so agreeable?”
He gave her a brief, fierce hug, then leaned back until their eyes met. His gaze was warm, and one side of his mouth curled in a self-effacing grin. “Because I forgot that you were a terrified child when last you visited my home.” With a gauntleted hand, he brushed away her tears. “ ’Tis natural for you to recall that time and quake in fear.”
Her better judgment sounded a warning. He was a Scot, and worse, a Highlander. He shouldn’t be so nice, not unless he had a purpose. That he’d read her so easily troubled Meridene more than his winsome smile.
Miffed at her girlish reaction, she drew back. “I did not quake.”
His gaze never left hers. “Nay, you did not. You yielded sweetly, and for that I am grateful.”
Yield? Her defenses rose. “I’ll be a toothless crone before I yield to you, Revas Macduff.”
His grin broadened. “Perish that first thought. You’re far too bonny to ever turn cronish.”
Pretty words rolled off his tongue like stones in a landslide. Twenty women wanted him. Twenty women were welcome to him. Did he desire them all as well? “Save your roguish words.”
All agreeable and confident male, he nodded. “ ’Tis a bargain made, then. You keep an open mind, and I’ll resist the urge to flatter you.”
He didn’t know it, but she wouldn’t be here long enough to make a pact with him. Sanctuary of the church awaited her. “Ha! Spoken like a true Highlander. I’ll make no bargain with you.”
His smile turned bittersweet. “You already have. Thirteen years ago, you gave yourself into my keeping.”
He was a sloth to bring that up. “ ’Twas the king of England who did the giving. I had no choice.”
Using only his legs, he guided the stallion back onto the road. “Then I give you one now. You may act the shrew and shame yourself before these people, or you can honor your forebears.”
They had reached the crest of a hill. “People?” she said. “What people?”
“Those people.”
She turned, and the sight before her robbed her of breath.