Roderick entered the drawing room and poured himself a drink. He swirled the amber liquid once, twice, then raised the glass. Before it touched his lips, he heard a woman’s reprimand.
‘Ye’re late.’
He lowered the glass a fraction. That voice, spoken with sufficient hauteur, had to belong to the MacDonald lass. Annabel, he corrected. They’d never before met, and yet there was a distinct familiarity about her clipped intonation.
A glance over his shoulder and there she stood, a safe distance behind him. How had she moved so close so quickly, he’d not heard or sensed her presence?
His gaze returned to the contents of his glass: uisge-beatha. Water of life. He hoped the whisky would bolster his courage to face the inevitable. He was loath to upset or disappoint the MacDonald lass. He drank, set the glass down and turned to face his alleged wife.
It took but a transitory moment to reconcile the appearance of the impoverished-looking lass he’d met an hour ago with the handsomely dressed woman staring him down like a rival Highlander.
Roderick felt a measure of relief to think that woman and this were one and the same. She’d shown resilient tenacity in their earlier conversation and would therefore be less likely to crumble with the news he was about to deliver.
But first, he appraised the demure emerald gown. Simple, yet feminine, it served to accentuate the curves of her tall slender figure. Features he’d previously considered plain, he now discerned as … tempting.
Red spice-coloured hair, parted in the middle and unbound, fell in unruly waves past her shoulders, almost to her waist. It sat in stark contrast against the pale skin of her face and throat.
Well-defined eyebrows arched above lucid eyes. She looked ready to pounce, and stared back at him with the same intense irritation as had shown in her voice.
Roderick’s gaze continued along the line of her nose and high cheekbones. Her slender neck begged a man press his lips there and linger.
What was he thinking? He wasn’t. He blamed fatigue and feeling famished. Perhaps he was in want of a woman in his bed to satisfy a more basic hunger.
Utterly nonsensical, to be sure.
Not this woman. The sooner he made his intentions clear, the better. She would be just as happy to be quickly free of him as he of her. His great-uncle was right about another thing. This lass was not to be overlooked. Nor was her accusation.
His gaze diverted to the ornate clock taking pride of place on the mantelshelf above the fire. To his relief, it sounded a healthy tick-tock and its hands kept time.
‘Late?’ Roderick queried. ‘I think not.’ No sooner had he spoken than it chimed the hour. ‘Tardiness is a trait I deplore. ’Tis a mark of disrespect to keep one waiting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Aye. I’ve been waiting almost two weeks for ye, husband. I’d label that as tardy and disrespectful by yer own admission.’
She had him on that account, though he’d not let it go unchallenged. ‘I left London the instant I received word of my father’s death. Unless you can nominate a mode of transport faster than a horse, I don’t know how I’d have traversed the Highlands to arrive here any sooner.’
She nodded, conceding his point.
‘Had I received a timely invitation to my own nuptials, duty would have me keep up appearances. If I’d selected you as my bride, I’d have been eager to await and take your hand.’
‘Mere formalities,’ she sniffed, her tone indifferent.
‘And I, conveniently, excluded from them.’
Her hand waved as though swatting an irritating fly, as if his opinion didn’t matter. He stepped forwards. ‘What part did you play in this ridiculous arrangement?’
* * *
Annabel stood her ground, even though his closeness rattled her senses. His eyes clouded. In them, she read distrust.
She took in his clean-shaven face and resisted the oddest urge to reach out and press her palm against it, to placate his belief that she condoned this marriage bargain. Her focus settled on his strong jaw. He bore the features to stamp him as the late laird’s son.
He’d taken a comb to his dark, thick hair, still slightly damp from having been washed. She inhaled his subtle clean, male scent.
He stood proud, tall. A tailored coat—expensive, marking him as a man of import—served to emphasise the latent strength in his broad shoulders and chest.
Despite the impressive outward transformation, compared to his earlier dishevelment, Annabel would not be intimidated. She mentally shook herself, drawing shades over her roaming eyes. How had she allowed herself to approve of his masculinity? Why had she taken stock of the physical qualities she would seek in a husband should she have ever longed for one?
Time to gauge what she was up against in sending him swiftly back to England. She lifted her chin and held his gaze. ‘The future was nae mine to plan. Nor yers, ‘twould seem. Our fathers saw fit to negotiate that for us.’
He shook his head. ‘No one negotiates with whom I am to spend the rest of my life.’
‘But there, ’tis done.’
‘Then it shall be undone.’
She swung away from him, putting distance between them, lest he read concern in her eyes. ‘I believe it to be the perfect arrangement.’
He burst into laughter. So pleasing the sound that she turned to observe him. And regretted doing so, for the marked change in his expression—from irritation to jocular pleasure, brought about at her provocation—was something she could well become accustomed to. At the same time, she could ill-afford it being a possibility. It would be disastrous to her plans.
Be that he appeared amused by her statement, she waited for him to compose himself, and looked expectantly at him to explain his outburst.
To her chagrin, his lips quirked, leaving her certain that if she were to repeat her words it would set him off again. He strolled towards her, his gaze and manner distinctly predatory. She fought to control her skittish senses.
Steely grey eyes turned a clear blue, leaving Annabel suddenly exposed beneath his scrutiny.
‘I apologise for the way I spoke to you earlier, lass. You didn’t deserve it.’ A humble apology. ‘Why didn’t you reveal your identity when first we met?’
‘Why did ye nae think to ask?’
He fell silent. Something akin to regret flashed in his eyes. It was, perhaps, an indication that something more than his father’s death aggrieved him. It was no secret he and his father had parted on bad terms.
‘You’re right. Given my present circumstance, I just didn’t … think.’ He offered up a conciliatory smile. ‘’Tis no excuse, I know, but I’ve pressing matters to consider. Taking a wife is not one of them. Surely you know that a proxy marriage between us is defunct. We’re not married, lass. The marriage contract is not valid. I’ll find and destroy it.’
Along with her plans. ‘Paper might be torn, burned even, but ye cannae break with tradition and our fathers’ word.’
‘’Twas not theirs to give. We both are strangers, lass. I call that an imperfect arrangement. We come from clans with a history of rivalry and violence, to be sure, but my father is dead, his warmongering ways buried with him. I’ve no quarrel with your father, nor am I likely to.’
Annabel knew different. Her father didn’t want her. Pride forbade she reveal it. Calling his bluff just might save her. ‘Legal or nae, yer rejection of me will bring him shame and dishonour and I’ll have to wear it like dirty dishwater. Therein lies yer quarrel. We Scots have suffered enough of that, wouldnae ye agree?’
His mouth firmed. ‘I’ll not be bound by something in which I’ve played no part. Where is the honour in that? Leave your father to me. On behalf of Clan MacLeod, I apologise for any inconvenience or distress you’ve suffered. You need fret no longer. Tomorrow, I’ll be your personal escort and take you home.’
I dinnae want to go back to my clan! She’d almost voiced it aloud.
He offered her his arm. ‘Come, Morag has prepared us a meal.’
Instinct begged she object to his decision, yet irritating him might be to her detriment. Reluctant, her hand settled in the crook of his elbow. She searched for a way to change his mind.
Annabel thought of the cave cut deep into the cliffs along the coast, and the MacDonald clansman hidden there. She held his life in her hands and would no more betray him than she would allow Roderick MacLeod to deliver her back to her father.
* * *
They stopped at the threshold of the private dining room. Annabel’s hand remained on his arm, and there, beneath her fingers, his muscles twitched.
A sidewards glance revealed the strain on his face. His eyes searched the empty room. He seemed agitated. Unsettled. Had a distant memory stirred his emotions?
He stepped forwards, escorting her to the table. What she saw made her heart sink. Her hand tightened on his arm. She made no attempt to leave his side. He lifted her hand from his sleeve, stood behind the chair and drew it out for her to sit.
He waited.
Annabel questioned the merit in speaking her mind, to protest the change in the seating arrangement. Their eyes met. A stand-off.
‘This is nae where the laird’s wife takes her seat at table,’ she challenged.
He nodded. ‘Correct.’
Annabel swallowed her pride and took the seat that marked her as a guest of Finvreck. Angus and Morag had acknowledged her as Roderick’s wife and, before his return home, had seated her accordingly in the great hall. Where were they now to champion her?
Roderick lingered at her back as if to affirm his presence, his authority. Was it his plan to strip her completely of any misguided claim she thought to make as the Lady of Finvreck?
‘Yer uncle and Morag are nae joining us?’ she probed.
She flinched when his hands settled on her shoulders. Heat from his palms seeped through the clothes to her skin.
‘No.’ He leaned close to her ear. ‘We dine alone.’
His actions and the breath of his words scattered her wits to every corner of the room. Awareness of him bloomed, powerful enough to momentarily rob her of her resentment towards him.
Foolish lass! She cast an imaginary net over her sensibilities, hauled it in and tossed it behind her heart. No man, least of all Roderick MacLeod, would suffer the same pleasure from her touch as she did from his. Stupid to challenge what had been ingrained in her. She held fast to her purpose. To remain at Finvreck.
She tracked his movements as he strolled around the table. He glanced at each chair, as if remembering the person who may have once occupied it. His hand lifted, balled into a fist, and came to rest on the back of a chair he’d singled out. Pausing behind it, his shoulders lifted and fell with the intake of a silent, slow breath.
He moved to stand behind a larger seat, one built to accommodate a man of his size and stature. Large hands mapped the wooden frame like a carpenter feeling for splinters in his latest creation. He drew the chair out and, resolute, took his seat as the Laird of Finvreck.
Several maidservants appeared with fresh-cut loaves and served the meal. When the heavy baluster wine goblets had been filled, they left the room, each giving a coy backward glance at their new master. He never noticed. His look of concentration suggested his mind to be otherwise occupied.
Annabel glanced at the chair he’d paused behind. His? Perhaps here, as a boy growing into adulthood, he would have sat sharing meals and conversation with his family.
She, having forgotten what it was to express one’s thoughts and ideas at table, envied him. To listen and to be heard. To have her father respect her opinion, if only he would ask it.
Despite the unresolved issues where Roderick and his sire were concerned, they at least had once shared a relationship.
She glanced at him. He wore the look of a man confronting what had come to pass and what was to be.
The smell of tantalising broth and freshly baked bread drew her focus. Her time spent walking the clifftops and down along the shore and hidden caves had left her with a healthy appetite. The rumbling of her empty stomach distracted the new laird.
He looked up and gestured to her meal. ‘Please. Begin.’
She dipped her spoon in the bowl and swallowed mouthful after mouthful, all the while pondering the emotions he looked to be struggling with.
A part of her demanded she leave him to eat his meal in peace. Like an unwelcome intruder, she had no right being here, witnessing this significant, private moment in his life. She’d observed his reluctance to occupy the seat where his father had once sat, head of his household, head of his clan.
His father’s replacement.
How ironic to think she be the first to watch him assert his position, knowing he saw her as his very first problem. Dispose of the unwanted wife.
Annabel would not be passed over so easily. Nor was she content to sit in awkward silence. ‘A symbolic gesture,’ she said.
Roderick met her gaze. She indicated with a nod of her head, his place at the head of the table.
He lifted his spoon. ‘One you need not concern yourself with.’
Warning Annabel off the subject only forced her to pursue it. ‘The clan will soon gather to hear ye pledge yer allegiance to them as laird.’
‘You’re mistaken, lass. The old ways are gone. They’ll be no gathering. English law forbids it.’
‘The clans dinnae care for English law, and neither do I!’
‘Best you keep such thoughts to yourself, and I don’t need to be telling you why.’ Another dire warning.
‘Though it be treason, I speak for all Highlanders.’
‘Not all.’ He raised the wine to his lips.
‘So it would appear, Sassenach!’
It unnerved Annabel the way he looked at her over the rim of his goblet. The way he calmly set it down and stared at her with unreadable eyes. What was it about him that raised her hackles? ‘Yer clan will rally around ye. Word travels as we speak.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Of my return, perhaps. They know nothing of my plans.’
‘Occupying the laird’s chair is proof enough of yer intentions. The servants who waited on ye willnae keep it a secret.’
His eyes held a hint of suspicion. ‘For a MacDonald, you take unprecedented interest in me and my clan.’
‘We all are Highlanders and these are unsettling times. The English pillage our lands, burn cottages, rape, and test the strength of a branch with a child’s neck in a noose.’ Annabel struggled for composure. ‘Someone has to take an interest in the welfare of our kinsmen.’
Did his eyes narrow because of the challenge she laid at his feet, or because he looked ready to hunt down the perpetrators guilty of such hideous crimes?
‘Aye,’ she reinforced. ‘Innocent, defenceless children like puir Thomas. Eight years old and hunted like an animal. For the sport of it! The clan will look to ye for leadership and protection. If left to fend for themselves then who will ken their fate? They’ll want yer decision, to ken where they, and ye, stand.’
He leaned forwards. ‘God forbid anyone make another decision for me.’ His rejoinder held a trace of sarcasm.
Ignoring his reference to their arranged marriage, she pressed him for the truth. ‘Where does yer allegiance lie? With Scotland or England? Does yer heart wrestle with loyalty, one foot set either side of the border, or is it freedom of will versus duty?’
He sent her a wintry stare. ‘You question me as if I were on trial.’
‘Ye are. Ye have a duty of care to yer clansmen.’
His glare almost knocked her off her chair. Now was not the time to back down. ‘I must speak as plain as day with you.’
Hardened features relaxed into a mocking smile. ‘Nothing has stopped you thus far.’
Finvreck was Annabel’s home now. She would not be ousted on her ear. ‘Ye’re the Laird of Clan MacLeod. I offer ye my full support.’
He settled back into the chair and steepled his fingers. ‘My affairs are my own. I neither ask for, nor require, your support.’
‘That, ye do.’
He laughed. ‘Enlighten me.’
Annabel watched his long fingers curl around the goblet, lift it to his lips and take a slow sip. Humour glittered in his eyes, as though her reply would entertain him just as a court jester would amuse his king.
She would not dignify that role. ‘As yer wife, I—’
‘Annabel,’ he interrupted.
It was the first time he’d addressed her by name. The soft edge in his voice carved a mark inside her.
‘We’re not married, lass. Don’t deceive yourself into believing it so. You deserve a man who will love and protect you.’
Something inside her snapped. ‘Are ye incapable of loving and protecting me?’ She looked away, regretting her sudden outburst. She didn’t want to see pity in those summer-blue eyes.
Roderick MacLeod had unwittingly hit a raw nerve. Rejection. Pray he be blind to her deepest vulnerability.
* * *
‘Look at me, Annabel,’ he coaxed. Reluctantly, she obeyed. ‘Do you love me?’
‘Nae.’
‘Exactly my point.’ Lying served her no purpose. He respected her honesty.
‘Love is irrelevant in this matter,’ she countered.
‘I disagree.’
Surprise showed on her face. ‘An unusual revelation, coming from an Englishman.’
‘Half English,’ he reminded her. ‘Your point?’
‘I understand yer mother was highborn. Wouldnae ye consider breeding and a strong match the substance of marriage?’
He arched a brow, amused by her inference. ‘If I were looking for my true equal, I’d seek a lass who was half Scot, half Sassenach. Like myself. As for the other, how are we a good match?’
The question seemed to tick over in her mind. ‘I’m sure our fathers saw common ground between us. We have only to explore it.’
‘Our fathers!’ Roderick mocked the suggestion with palpable disgust. ‘They were not of sound mind to have inflicted such a ruse upon us. In their cups, I dare say. The legacy of too much whisky.’ He leaned forwards, raised the goblet to ridicule them, and made a toast. ‘To our fathers.’ He took a sip. ‘What say had your mother in this alleged marriage?’
‘None. She’s dead.’ A look of pain dashed across her face.
‘My sympathies.’ Roderick set the goblet down and honoured her loss with a respectful pause. ‘Would she have approved?’
‘Of ye or the marriage?’
He shrugged. ‘Both.’
‘She would have wanted what was best for me.’
Roderick gave her a speculative look. ‘Am I what’s best for you?’
‘Aye.’ A confident nod did little to disguise the doubt in her eyes.
Roderick pitied her. ‘Then you would be sorely disappointed.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘A moot point. Best we drop the subject.’ Roderick folded his arms and leaned back against the chair.
‘Is it me ye find objectionable, or marriage?’
Roderick stifled a groan. He’d never met such a persistent woman. She would let the matter rest no more than a rabid dog would heel at its master’s feet. And yet, he had to admit to being curiously drawn to her. ‘I’ve no dislike of you, lass.’
‘Then what is yer objection to marriage?’
He spread his hands wide. ‘I have none. I simply choose to avoid it.’
‘For what reason?’
‘It has its complications.’
‘Life is complicated.’
‘Exactly. Why add to it? Marriage has more unpredictable twists and turns than a mountain stream.’
‘Aye. And with any obstacle it encounters, it carves an alternative route to continue on its way. ’Tis those twists and turns that shape its character, defining its verra essence.’
Stalwart passion resonated in her voice, in her bearing. Roderick suspected its origin was born of a personal nature; something that ran deeper than the physical landscape she so aptly described.
Instinct bellowed caution. What truth did she hide? He took up the challenge to seek and wring it from her. ‘Are you suggesting that life without marriage offers a dull existence?’
‘Like night without day.’
She sipped a spoonful of broth. The tip of her tongue licked her lips. The innocent action did not escape Roderick’s notice. He resumed his query with an intimate undercurrent. ‘In the same way that, without knowing pain, there can be no pleasure?’
He’d asked the question just as Annabel swallowed another mouthful of broth. She sputtered and coughed, pressing the napkin to her lips. Colour bloomed in her cheeks. ‘Aye.’
Roderick stared back at those wary, almond-shaped eyes, at lips full with promise, an elegant neck, and shoulders pulled back to boast breasts in want of filling a man’s hands.
The dining table concealed her body from the waist down but he had no trouble recalling the lines of her slender form. It had been indelibly etched on his brain the moment he’d turned to find her standing behind him in the drawing room. The alluring gown revealed more of her shapely figure than had that coarse sack-like garment she’d worn when he’d assumed she was a servant.
His gaze, lazy and indulgent, lifted to hers. ‘You answer from observation, or experience?’
Something in those wary eyes betrayed her. He identified hurt in them. ‘You wish to experience both, Annabel? Life with marriage, pleasure … and pain?’
She grasped his underlying meaning, of that he had no doubt. Her pulse jumped beneath the fair skin at her throat. Colour on her cheeks deepened. With his sexual overtones and talk of pleasure, he could see she trod turbulent waters, almost gasping for air. Either she cleverly masked a less than virtuous disposition, or she’d never known a man’s touch.
To be her first. A rush of blood tightened his loins. Desire stirred. Aroused, he shifted forwards in his seat.
‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘You would give yourself to me and submit to all that marriage demands?’
She sat ramrod straight, chin raised. ‘Aye. Including a child.’
Desire perished like a rose tossed into a blazing hearth. ‘Damn you, woman! With my father fresh in his grave, and me the new laird, I’m no more ready to be a father than I am a husband.’
Courage returned to those wildcat eyes. ‘Twists and turns, my lord.’
Her insolent barb stung him as if she’d slapped his cheek.
‘Furthermore,’ she boldly stated, ‘once I bear ye a son, I relinquish my demands on yer fidelity. Take as many lovers as ye wish. Better still, return to England if it pleases ye.’
‘If it pleases me?’ Roderick could scarce believe his ears.
‘Aye. I’ll nae get in yer way, and ye’ll be out of mine. All will be as if we were ne’er married and yet Finvreck will have an heir. At least one of yer father’s wishes will have been fulfilled.’
‘He had more than one?’ Just how intimately did Annabel McDonald know his father?
‘The clan has managed without ye. There’s nae reason why it cannae continue in the same way.’ A waspish reply to his sarcastic quip.
Her declaration outraged Roderick. ‘Shove me off the nearest cliff, why don’t you?’ He gripped the edge of the table. If it wasn’t clear before, it was now. This wildcat stalked him with a purpose in mind. She was marking her territory and assumed a child would serve to stake her claim.
Or did she already carry one?
His sharp gaze watched her hands settle over her belly. He wasn’t sure if she wore a grimace or a grin. Gnawing suspicion stirred him to act, to confront her reasons for being here. In an instant, he drew her to her feet and held her shoulders firm.
‘You would make a cuckold of me and pass off another man’s child as my own? As heir to Finvreck? Is that what this union is all about?’
‘Cuckold?’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘That implies we’re married when clearly ye claim we’re nae.’
‘I’m in no mood for games.’ The tightness in his voice carried the same dangerous threat as his words.
Panic flared in her eyes as though he’d taken his dirk to her throat. Her lips pressed together in defiance. Damn! He admired her courage.
Roderick dropped one hand to her waist. His palm spread flat against her stomach. She stiffened. ‘Whose child is it, Annabel? My father’s? One of your clansmen?’
She held her tongue. Roderick walked her back a step, trapping her between the table’s edge and his imposing frame. His hand lay wedged between her belly and his breeches.
‘As your laird, know this. I’ll not be manipulated into something or someone of your design. Nor will I allow you or any others to dictate my future or that of Finvreck. Understand?’
She issued him a curt nod.
‘Then answer my question.’
Her eyes blazed with hatred. ‘I’m nae with child.’
The truth lay bare on her face and in the brilliance of a mortified blush. Proof enough to declare her innocent of his accusation. Deep, shaky breaths expanded her lungs and the pulse at her throat jumped with the hammering of her heart against his chest.
‘Let me go!’ It was a tremulous order.
Roderick raised his free hand to gently cup the curve of her jaw and settle her. She turned her cheek and squeezed her eyes shut, cowering like a field mouse being swooped by an eagle.
A cracking clap of thunder outside ignited Roderick’s anger towards whatever or whomever had caused the lass to react in so strong a manner. Was it the prospect of a man’s touch to paralyse her with fear, or his touch?
His pride took a beating.
He stepped back, out of her reach. ‘Do not fear me, Annabel. I won’t hurt you.’
Her eyes blinked open. She’d gone pale, tense. Roderick stepped aside, out of her way. Distrust burned in the look she sent him. She held no more belief in his promise than if the King of England had granted Scotland its independence and freedom.
She’d turned the tables, throwing down the gauntlet in challenging him to earn her trust.
Annabel fled the room, leaving Roderick in an irritating quandary over how she’d managed to win the upper hand. Damn but if his own words didn’t now haunt him. Twists and turns.
He couldn’t fathom her thinking, her mentality. She was delusional, just like his uncle. They both believed in this marriage as if it were ordained by God himself. Absurd! The only outcome would be a miserable future.
The depth of unrest in the troubled Highlands, together with the country’s tenuous state of affairs, was reason enough to not pursue this marriage. For that reason, Roderick refused to be bound to another, in England or Scotland, let alone bring a child into the world.
Pacing the room didn’t lend any insight into understanding the lass’s wish to marry a man she hadn’t met until today. What could he, or Finvreck offer her that her own clan could not?
The question gave him pause. Something sinister lurked beneath this murky surface. Before it reared its ugly head, Roderick resolved to deliver Annabel safely home.
He’d go now to make the necessary arrangements and commence their journey with the rising of tomorrow’s sun. If he had to tie her hands to the pommel and saddle up behind her, then so be it.
Upon his return, he’d begin the search for his father’s successor. A man who, in the eyes and tradition of Clan MacLeod, would stay true to the clan motto and Hold Fast. A man worthy of the title Laird.