Highland Hope by Julie Johnstone

Three

The fierce, dark-haired giant of a man standing in the center of the room, the one looking as if he was about to explode into a rage, was wearing a kilt. Eve was frozen by the knowledge that Florrie had not been lying so many years ago when she’d told Eve those bedtime stories about barbaric Highlanders who wore kilts and fancied not wearing anything under them. Or perhaps Eve was still in shock over being snatched off the edge of the birlinn, then carried over the shoulder of the man who was now gripping her arm. She’d hardly had time to recover from being unceremoniously slung over his shoulder after he’d asked her if she belonged to a man.

Her head still pounded from the long trek up a harrowing set of narrow stairs that rose to match the dizzying height of this stone fortress that seemed to end in the clouds. The sea had roared to her right, and the view of the steep drop to the jagged rocks below had stolen her breath. She’d come willingly to this fortress, but maybe her decision had been rash and naive. Of course it had! She’d only thought of escape, not if she was running from one horror straight to another.

Florrie’s gravelly voice was suddenly in her ear: Highlanders wear kilts, Eve, though the English call them skirts behind the Highlanders’ backs. Never to their faces, mind you. The Scots would cut an Englishman’s tongue out for the slight. Barbarian lot, they are.

Eve’s gaze dropped from the scowling man’s face, which was surprisingly handsome even so, to his legs. Dark hair dusted his long legs.

Florrie’s voice was loud in her ear once more: Highlanders don’t wear anything under their skirts because they rut all the time like beasts. Take their poor women anytime they please, even in broad daylight out of doors! They’re like wild boars.

Eve couldn’t picture what that would look like, probably because she had never been “taken.” Good lord, did the barbaric Highlanders take women who were not their wives? She tried once more to pull free at the thought, but the stranger holding her gripped her arm harder, causing her to wince.

Noise surrounded her from every direction, as did strangers. Two young girls covered in muck screeched. Heaven help her, were they the laird’s “angels”? A woman with flaming-red hair spoke so fast and waved her hands so furiously that it made Eve dizzy. A line of people stood before the dark-haired, skirt-wearing giant, and they all seemed to be complaining. The need to run shot through Eve. She’d made a mistake coming here. The journey had been horrid, the waters choppy the whole time and the temperature growing so cold that Eve didn’t think she’d ever feel her toes or fingers again. She’d lost Alban’s cloak overboard, too, so now she had none. The urge to slap her palms over her ears to silence the ever-increasing clamor grew so strong that she actually tried to do so, only to be gripped so tight that she cried out in pain.

“Let go of the lass! I told ye she’s here for my laird’s twins!”

The priest’s announcement came from behind her and was loud enough to momentarily pierce through the other noise, but then chaos descended like a hard downpour. It seemed everyone turned eyes upon her at once. The girls stopped screeching, but then one of them threw an apple at her and the other whipped out what looked to be a bow. Eve was quite sure the hellion would have shot her if the laird had not snatched the weapon from her tiny, deadly hands.

“What do ye mean she is here for my nieces?” the red-haired woman demanded.

Eve followed the woman’s accusing glare behind her to a red-faced, huffing Father Murdoch. He’d been below on the birlinn gathering his things—his wine skin, Eve guessed—when this strange man had snatched Eve right off the vessel. Father Murdoch gave her an apologetic look, and she tried to reassure the priest with a smile that it was not his fault, but the smile faltered when the man beside her gripped her tighter.

“I’m taking this woman with me,” the foul-smelling man said.

Eve recoiled at the thought and tried to jerk away once more, but her captor’s meaty hand closed like a vise around her arm. She whimpered with the pain, the twin girls started screeching once more, and the red-haired woman let out a string of foul curses that made Eve’s lips part. Then a whistle, loud, strong, and piercing, cut through all the noise. Silence fell, and everyone around her stilled, and their attention turned to the laird. A muscle pulsed angrily at his jaw line making him look as if he would make true the stories Florrie relayed of Highlanders beheading their enemies without blinking an eye.

His large hand covered the hilt of his sword, which was strapped at his hip. He drew it in a quick motion, the weapon swishing in the silence. It gleamed before him, catching the light from the candles lit in the room, and he pointed it at the man holding her. The laird’s gaze, intense blue like the sky at twilight, rested heavily on the man. “I do nae want a war with ye, MacNeil, but if ye do nae release the lady in yer clutches this instant, it will be war.”

Eve’s breath caught in her chest at his threatening words, even as the tension in her loosened a bit at the prospect that the laird was coming to her aid. Or at least she hoped he was and that she wasn’t being passed from one threat to another.

“She’s nae yer woman, is she?” MacNeil asked as if she were not present. “She said she did nae belong to any man.”

Eve prayed she didn’t show any signs of guilt at her lie. The position here hinged upon having no family, and if the Highlanders turned out not to be savage barbarians, she wanted to stay. This was the perfect place never to be found by Frederick, his family, or her father.

“She’s on my land and, apparently, here for my daughters.” He paused, and his dark gaze bore into her, seeming to probe her for the truth. She squirmed under his steady, unblinking gaze. For a moment, he studied her thoughtfully, and she bit her lip with worry that he’d think her too much trouble to intervene further, but his gaze seemed to warm a bit, and he returned his attention to MacNeil. “She’s under my protection,” he announced, and Eve blew out a relieved breath.

“Ye owe me a woman, MacLeod, unless ye plan to send yer sister back with me.”

The red-haired woman glared at MacNeil. “I’ll nae be wedding a man who took another woman to his bed the verra night I arrived at his home to prepare for our wedding! Ye do nae have any loyalty!”

The MacNeil offered a dismissive laugh. “A man needs more than one woman, girl. If I’d known ye were so eager to climb into my bed, I’d have mounted ye on—”

The MacLeod came at the MacNeil in a blur, his fist connecting with the MacNeil’s mouth and silencing the man. The punch sent MacNeil staggering backward, and unfortunately, the man still had a grip on Eve so she went with him with a yelp. Just when she thought she’d crash to the ground with her captor, the MacLeod caught her by her wrist and tugged her forward to his chest. She tensed at first, used to Frederick’s cruelty, but the MacLeod’s heavily muscled arm slid around her to pull her back from the MacNeil and something gentle in his touch quieted her initial fear.

His gaze met hers for the briefest moment, a flash of reassurance there. Then he pushed her gently behind him, releasing her and spreading his legs in a wide stance. Immediately, two men appeared from nowhere to stand by his side, swords drawn to match his. As the MacNeil righted himself, the MacLeod spoke. “Ye stepped foot on my land because I allowed it. Because I named ye a friend when ye were to wed my sister, but Elena does nae want ye and now I can see why. Leave my home, and do nae come back. Consider the wedding contract broken.”

Eve peered around the set of very broad shoulders blocking her view to see the MacNeil swipe his hand across his bleeding lip. “Ye’re breaking yer word to me. I deserve recompense in the form of another MacLeod woman.” His gaze settled on Eve, and the lust in his eyes made her skin crawl.

The MacLeod’s entire body stiffened in front of her, and if anger could be felt, his roiled off him in hot waves. “This woman is nae a MacLeod, and nae mine to give, but even if she was, I can tell ye now, MacNeil, I’d nae be giving her to ye. I’ll take war over handing a woman to the likes of ye.”

Eve’s jaw slackened. The man didn’t even know her and he was willing to go to war for her? She could hardly comprehend his willingness to make such a sacrifice. Even her own father hadn’t been willing to do such a thing. Her throated tightened at that memory.

“This is war, MacLeod,” the MacNeil snarled. He swung around and shoved his way out of the solar, and as he did, the MacLeod motioned to the two warriors beside him. They nodded at him as if they understood some silent command and departed after the MacNeil. The minute the heavy wooden door closed, voices erupted, but the MacLeod let out a shrill whistle once more and the chatter stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Eve half expected him to turn to her and demand to know who she was, but he angled toward the line of servants, and his profile was presented to her. He had a strong jaw. Square. Tense. His right eye was twitching. And no wonder. Look at all he had to deal with in just these few moments! She was amazed he’d kept his temper as well as he had. Her own father would have lashed the servants, and it struck her then that perhaps that’s what this man was about to order.

She took a step back and ran into a body, which made her yelp, and then someone—no, two someones, given the conspiratorial snickering at her back—tugged on her arm, but before she could turn, the MacLeod glanced back at her, his hand on the hilt of his sword again, and then his sharp, assessing gaze landed behind her.

“Ye two are in a great deal of trouble.” The snickering immediately seized, and Eve bit her lip at the man’s dark tone and even darker look.

“Da—”

“Nay,” the word was an unbreachable command.

Eve stole a glance behind her at the girls, the laird’s daughters. Two pairs of wide blue eyes, the same deep blue as their father’s, met Eve before she faced forward once more. “Do nae throw anything at this woman or shoot her,” MacLeod said to the girls, as if the order was common.

Good heavens, what had she stumbled into?

His gaze passed over Eve before his attention fell on the line of two women and one man. “Thomas, the girls will be down shortly to gather up the chickens and put them in the coop.”

“But Da—”

He held up a hand but did not glance back at his daughters. Whatever protest they’d wanted to make did not come, and the MacLeod continued. “Aidan, the girls will clean up the mess they made with the mead after they eat their supper, and they will aid the maids in cleaning the bedchambers for the next fortnight.”

The man, Aidan, arched his eyebrows. “And will ye be here to ensure the children actually do as ye say they must?”

MacLeod’s shoulders stiffened. “Likely, I’ll be away dealing with the many quarrels Elena has drawn the clan into.” He turned his head then and shot a scowl at the woman, Elena, who was apparently his sister.

She scowled in return. “The last was truly nae my fault,” she protested. “Ye witnessed how that man was.”

“Aye.” MacLeod swiped a hand across his face. “But since ye are here, ye can look over the rearing of the girls until—”

Elena shook her head. “I’m nae staying. I’ve already written to Mother at the king’s court and asked to come there and serve the queen. It is no use trying to persuade me otherwise.”

“We’ll talk of it later.” MacLeod’s tone hinted of his differing viewpoint, but he didn’t linger on the topic. Instead, he focused on the servants once more. “Martha, the girls will cook with ye in the kitchens for the next sennight so that they understand how much work ye put into the creations they keep stealing.”

“I welcome their help, Laird, and ye know I would nae ever question yer authority, but I have to ask as Aidan did… Who will ensure the girls actually obey the orders ye’ve given when ye are gone? Nae any of the servants will attempt to control them, as they fear angering ye, and the men dunnae have any notion what to do with them, least of all yer brother. He dunnae enforce any rules, and he lets them run about like a pack of wild dogs.”

And that’s when the laird’s deep-blue gaze settled firmly on Eve. The dark slash of MacLeod’s brows dipped together as he silently stared at her, and her heart beat a little faster under the obvious scrutiny. “What did Father Murdoch mean when he said ye were here for my girls?”

The question wasn’t unfriendly, but his tone was unflinching, and well, heavens, she didn’t think the man was trying to be intimidating but his mere presence most definitely was. He looked exactly like what she’d imagined a barbaric Highlander would look like—or at least she thought she recalled what he looked like from her first glimpse of him. There had been a great deal of chaos.

Curiosity about him pulled her attention from his waiting gaze to his shoulders.

Yes. Her first impression had been correct. His shoulders were massive, and the corded muscles strained as if trying to escape the confines of his skin. She found her focus traveling from his shoulders to his chest, and her lips parted. Frederick’s chest was the only one she’d ever seen, and she’d only seen it partially twice. Both times she’d come to his chamber at the appointed hour, and he’d thrown open the door with nothing more than his breeches and a parted robe on. Then he’d berated her and sent her away. Frederick’s chest was bare and white and lean. Not thin, but certainly not the size of this Highlander’s chest.

Slabs of muscle lifted with each breath, and he was taking long, even ones. There was no fat on his chest. Simply dangerous, deadly muscle covered by a light dusting of black hair that trailed straight down. Her belly tightened oddly as her gaze dropped to where the hair ended directly below his belly button and where the material of his kilt clung at his hips. Her gaze fell lower. Did Highlanders truly wear nothing underneath their kilts? She heard her sharp intake of breath, and then a feminine chuckle filled the room.

“I think she likes ye, Royce,” a female voice said. “Then again, all the lasses like ye, but ye will nae give any of them even a second look. But they look at ye. Just like this one.”

Heat seared Eve’s cheeks, rushed down her neck, and consumed her upper chest in flames, but she forced herself to bring her eyes back to his. He did not look pleased at all with the woman Elena’s words. In fact, his lips pressed in a thin line told her the comment had irritated him. Still, even irritated, the man had a harshly beautiful face. Without moving his focus from Eve, he said, “Quit speaking, Elena.”

The woman shot an irate look at her brother but pressed her lips together, and Eve could not help but wilt a little with relief.

The MacLeod arched a dark eyebrow and released the angry line of his lips. “Ye’ve nae ever spent time in the company of Highlanders, have ye?” Very thick, very dark eyebrows arched.

It was a statement of certainty, not truly a question, but she answered it anyway. “Well, not until I met your men and we took the birlinn together, but they… Well, they were not wearing…” Her voice trailed off as heat consumed her, and she waved a hand at his kilt.

His eyes widened a fraction, his gaze stayed unwavering, but she could have sworn his lips twitched a bit, as if he were going to smile but repressed it. She felt foolish, which made her feel the need to explain. “I’d heard stories of Highlanders before I met your men,” she blurted. Now his lips did twitch up into a half smile that softened his face for one breath, before his smile disappeared, and his brows arched higher. He was going to ask her about the stories! Whyever had she mentioned them. Foolish, foolish.

“What have ye heard?” His question was gruff. In fact, as she recounted his words to her, she realized all his words had been short, as if talking to her was a bother.

She cleared her throat while sweeping her gaze over the remaining people in the solar—MacLeod, Elena, the MacLeod’s children, who were glaring at her, and Father Murdoch. Everyone else had departed. She cleared her throat again, and her hands came together, her fingers interlacing at her midsection. The laird watched her, his eyes tracking her every movement. She was certain in that moment that the man was very observant and that he could detect a lie easily. Would he send her away if he knew her truth? Undoubtedly so. She could bring trouble to their castle if Frederick ever discovered she was here. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

“Maybe she’s a clot-heid,” one of the decidedly not angelic girls said, giving Eve a look of derision.

Something in that look reminded her of emotions long buried. Those of anger, resentment, and loneliness, that had been her constant companions after her mother had died when Eve was only eight summers and her father had wed before two sennights had passed. She’d detested her new stepmother, though it did turn out her instinct had been correct.

“Lenora!” MacLeod said, the one word reverberating like thunder in the room. “Mind yer tongue.”

“I’m not a clot-head,” Eve finally said, finding her own tongue and shoving down her fear. She thrust back her shoulders. She set her attention on Lenora for a moment, and the child stuck her tongue out at Eve.

“Lenora!” Elena gasped. “Keep yer tongue in yer mouth!”

“I’m minding it just as da told me to.”

This time the man turned to his daughters and gave his back to Eve. “Away with ye both,” he said, gesturing at them. “Head to the great hall with Elena.”

“But I want to stay!” Elena protested. “Ye may need me. She looks and sounds English, and everyone knows the English kinnae be trusted. Especially the women.”

Eve stiffened at that, and the MacLeod inhaled a long breath. She knew because his shoulders rose with it.

“That may be so, Sister, but if I kinnae guard myself against one wee English lass, then I do nae deserve to be laird of this clan.”

Now Eve was offended. The man had basically just agreed with his sister that English lasses—that she—was deceitful.

“Da, ye are the finest laird in the world, and we know ye’d squash that English wench under the toe of yer boot,” his other daughter said.

Well, Eve didn’t like the way this was proceeding at all. It seemed she really had left one dangerous place for another. She was about to edge toward the door, except where would she escape to?

“Ye’ll all three depart now, or ye’ll see me lose my temper,” MacLeod said, his tone even harsher.

The dizzying pace with which everyone fled from the room did make her wonder exactly happened when he lost his temper. She took a precautionary step away from the MacLeod, who was turning back to her and toward Father Murdoch, who still remained near the door.

“Do ye want me to depart too, MacLeod?” the priest asked.

“Nay. Ye have explaining to do, as does the lass.”

Eve’s pulse sped, but she withdrew the posting from the slit in her skirt and said, “I’m here to see a man named Brus. He put an announcement up at Durham for, well, I suppose in regard to your children, though I did think at the time it was in regard to his own children.”

“What in God’s blood do ye mean?” the MacLeod more growled than asked.

She took another step toward Father Murdoch and away from MacLeod, and his keen eyes tracked her movement. But, to her relief, he didn’t make a move toward her. She hated that his tone made her shake, but she could no more stop it than she could stop the snow that would fall again tonight.

“Do nae growl at the lass like ye’re a bear, Royce,” Father Murdoch chided. “Yer mam would be ashamed of how short-tempered ye always are.”

Royce.For some strange reason the man’s name roiled around in Eve’s head. She liked it. It was strong. It suited him.

“I put the announcement up for Brus,” Father Murdoch said.

“What bloody announcement?” Royce roared, making Eve jerk backward and smack into a body—an unmoving one. She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes widened at the man towering behind her. He had dark hair the same inky color as Royce’s but with more waves and the same deep-blue eyes, but his eyes held a mischievous glint.

A slow smile curled the man’s lips. She’d seen smiles like that before, between the guards at Frederick’s castle and the serving wenches. Flirtatious. She preferred the other man’s pressed lips of irritation. That man, the MacLeod, certainly hadn’t given her any look that suggested he saw her any differently than he saw a frog, which suited her perfectly. She couldn’t imagine ever trusting a man enough to welcome him to her bed. If her own father would betray her and her own husband could treat her so horribly, Gob above only knew what another man would be capable of doing to her. Inside her chest were the tattered remains of her heart. She needed to keep that organ together as best she could, and that meant keeping her heart firmly shut. Not that she was free to do anything else with it anyway.

The Highlander before her raised his arms to interlace his fingers behind his head, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I sent Murdoch to post an announcement, Brother. Ye need someone to take charge of the girls, and we both know it kinnae be me.”

“Ye did what?” MacLeod thundered.

Eve jerked at the ferocious noise, but the man in front of her grinned wider. “Do nae mind him, lass. He’s all roar, but he does nae bite.” And then he lowered his arms and turned abruptly away from her and headed toward Royce. “I took it upon myself to find ye someone to raise the wee lasses correctly. Ye need a wife.”

And not a moment later, Eve felt sure she understood why everyone had fled the solar when the laird had announced he was close to losing his temper.