Highland Hope by Julie Johnstone
Eight
Royce heard a yelp, which he now recognized as Abigail’s, and his pulse ticked up. He paused mid-sentence in berating the girls and swung toward the door. “Ye two follow me,” he tossed over his shoulder as he exited the girls’ bedchamber.
He stalked down the shadowy corridor, his heavy footfalls thudding and the girls’ lighter footsteps tapping between the thuds. Brus came up from the stairs, coverlet in hand, as Royce passed them and said, “I heard a yelp.”
“Aye, it was Abigail. I’m going to see about her now.”
Brus’s eyes widened at that. “What do ye think the lass is yelping about now?”
“I kinnae very well say until I see with my own two eyes, now can I?” Royce said, his temper short. “But I can say I do nae need ye to accompany me.”
“’Tis my pleasure, Brother,” Brus crowed. “’Tis very entertaining watching ye fall.”
Royce knew exactly what Brus meant, and he shot him a threatening look in response, to which his brother simply laughed. “I’m nae falling for her,” Royce said, careful to keep his tone low as he was well aware of his daughters behind him.
“Ye’re deceiving yerself,” Brus said, clapping Royce on the shoulder as they reached the threshold of Abigail’s bedchamber.
Royce’s jaw dropped, and he stood gaping for a moment at Abigail flat on her back and passed out among the crickets that remained in her bedchamber. Even as he moved to aid her, he turned and glared at his daughters. “Do ye see what yer wee wicked behavior has done? Ye’ve frightened the lass half to death.”
“’Tis nae our fault she’s a weak-spirited English lady,” Lenora said.
Royce bent down, slid his arms under Abigail’s back and legs, and brought her to his chest to cradle her there. He swung toward his daughters, who looked more pleased with themselves than ashamed, and his temper snapped. “To yer bedchamber, the both of ye! I do nae want to see either of yer faces until ye learn to be kind, obedient lasses.” When the girls stood there gaping at him, he bellowed, “Away with ye!”
They scrambled out of the room as if they’d caught fire, and as Royce made his way toward the door, he could feel Brus staring at him. Royce stopped in the threshold and glared at his brother. “What are ye gawking at?”
“That was a bit harsh, do ye nae think? The lass is nae dead, after all. She just took a good fright. See there,” Brus said, pointing to Abigail’s lovely face where her lashes were starting to flutter. “She’s already rousing.”
Yes, she was, but his pulse had yet to slow. Why was that?
As he asked himself the question, he moved past Brus to make his way to his own bedchamber. With each step down the winding hall, guilt for his temper with his girls mounted, as did his confusion. He glanced down at Abigail, who was starting to moan, and his chest squeezed. She’d brought chaos to his life, more than had already been there, and yet, he didn’t mind it for some reason. Oh, he minded the girls’ purposely unkind acts, but not the chaos of laughter he’d heard over the last few days when they’d danced in the courtyard or thrown food in the great hall. Why then, was he so vexed?
She moaned again, and he glanced down to find her wide, confused gaze on him. “What happened?”
His fingers tightened reflexively around her with the primitive need to protect her, comfort her. This feeling was why he was so vexed. She’d awoken something he was finding hard to put back to sleep. “Yer fear overcame ye,” he goaded, and then more serious he said, “Ye fainted into the crickets.”
A deep blush swept her face instantly. “Well, facing fear is not always easy,” she muttered, then wiggling in his arms, she said, “Where are you taking me?”
“Nae to the loch, if that’s what ye’re worried about,” he teased, hardly believing he’d done so. She smiled at that, which he found far too pleasing, and he said, “I’m taking ye to my bedchamber to gain yer composure.”
“Oh no!” she replied, squirming more against his body, which was already very aware of how she was pressed against him. And suddenly, it felt as if she could easily melt the iron control he’d long wrapped around himself. He didn’t like that at all. He increased his steps, kicked open his bedchamber door, and deposited her unceremoniously on his bed, almost desperate to put distance between them.
“Stay here,” he ordered, guilt pricking him at the wariness that crossed her face. He was acutely aware he was acting like an arse. “I’ll come fetch ye when yer bedchamber is ready.”
She scrambled to her knees, hair tumbling over her shoulders, lips rosy, and eyes shining, looking very much like a tempting sprite. “Let me help you.”
He could think of several ways he wanted her help, and none of them were ways he would allow himself to indulge in. Not that she’d allow it, either. “Ye’d only be in the way,” he managed to get out without revealing the yearning she inspired. And then he jerked around toward the door and departed. He’d not gotten four steps down the hall toward her room when the guilt for his harsh tone washed over him, but that only increased his steps and his temper that a lass, and English one at that, who’d he’d barely known long enough to call it knowing someone, somehow had the ability to make him feel guilty, and hot, and hard, and light. He didn’t like it at all.
He stalked into Abigail’s bedchamber to discover not only Brus there but Elena, as well. The two scrambled apart from their whispering but not before Royce noted their matching looks of conspiracy. “Do nae,” he said, between clenched teeth, “think ye can push Abigail and me together.”
Elena set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Do nae bark at me, Royce MacLeod. Ye may be laird, but ye’re our brother first. And we are nae pushing either of ye.”
“Ye’re both fairly falling for each other,” Brus said, and then he and Elena started roaring with laughter.
He gave them the look, the one his da had taught him long ago when he’d started training him to be laird. His da had told him that sometimes, especially with family, he had to make them think he may just banish them, even though he knew well he never would, and his da could do it with a simple look. Lips pressed thin. Nostrils flared. One single eyebrow cocked. Royce had mastered it, and he gave it to his siblings now.
Their laughter stopped cold, and they both looked from each other to him. Elena nibbled on her lip, and Brus shoved his hand through his hair several times before saying, “We’ll just leave ye to it, then. Unless ye want us to stay?”
Royce had to fight the urge to laugh. Instead, he raised his eyebrow higher, watching in amusement as Elena and Brus backed out of the room. When he was alone and he could no longer hear their footsteps, he allowed the grin to come, but it quickly faded to a grimace as he cleared the room of crickets. He’d practically thrashed the girls with words—and Abigail, too. Guilt weighed down on him as he finished in the room, and when the task was complete, he knew he had to apologize to all three of them.
He found the girls fast asleep, and he stood over their beds watching them for a while and listening to their steady, even breathing. He’d die for both of them if ever he needed, and he’d never been able to understand how Lara had put her own desires above the protection of their daughters. The betrayal to him had been bad enough, but her willingness to hurt the girls with her selfish actions had been the worst part. He’d known he could never forgive her for not doing all in her power to always protect them from harm. He bent down, gave Lenora a kiss on her forehead, and then did the same for Lillith.
Then he quietly exited the bedchamber and made his way to his own to apologize to Abigail and tell her that her own bedchamber was ready. He stopped in his doorway and sucked in a breath, something sharp piercing his chest. She was curled in the middle of his bed fast asleep, dark lashes fanning her face, léine once again bunched up over her lovely thighs. Her hands were tucked under her right cheek, her blond hair cascading all around her against his ruby coverlet, and her chest was displayed almost right down to her nipples as her neckline had been tugged low in her sleep.
Surprising longing to have a woman in his bed for more than a tumble overcame him, and he turned with a curse to stalk through the quiet, candlelit corridor, down the stone steps to the main floor, past the dark great hall, and out the main entrance. Two guards stood on either side of the door, one being Clyde MacLeod, the head of the archers.
Royce paused, surprised to find the man there. “Why are ye manning the door?” he asked. It was a job for the newer warriors, the lower ones in the chain of command.
“David had a wench who wished to see him,” Clyde said.
“Oh, aye? I’m surprised yer younger brother could talk ye out of yer own bed for the favor.”
Something that almost looked like wariness flashed in the man’s eyes, but then it was gone and Clyde grinned. “The man needs help with the wenches so I agreed. He’ll owe me a favor in return.”
“I imagine he will,” Royce said, moving on before Clyde inquired as to why Royce was out and about so late at night. Royce didn’t have to explain himself, but it would likely be awkward if he didn’t and he would not lie.
He took the seagate stairs quickly, the wind and cold night air slicing through him. He’d already swum in the loch previously to rid himself of the constantly lingering desire she inspired, but he stripped once more to his bare arse and waded into the freezing water where he stayed until his lust had cooled. It took so long that he feared his bollocks might never be the same.
As he dressed, a heaviness lay in his mind and upon his chest. He considered the longing that seeing Abigail asleep in his bed had inspired, the kind that went deep into a body to burrow within a man’s chest. That longing was a far more dangerous emotion than desire. Desire he could master. The other… Well, that was a different matter. He rubbed at his chest now, standing under the stars, the water lapping behind him and the wind whistling around him, chilling his skin and infusing the air with the smell of salt from the water. The longing resurfaced and spread like a vine in his chest. Could he trust a woman again? God’s blood, he didn’t know if he could or if he even wanted to.
Avoiding her was made easier the next night at supper by the fact that Father Murdoch planted himself on one side of Royce at the dais and Brus planted himself on the other. On either side of them were Elena, Magnus, and Ragnar, so even if he had intentions of asking Abigail to sit at the dais, he would have needed to request someone move in order for her to join them. It should have been a relief that he’d not had to deal with it, but instead, he found himself in an irritable mood.
As conversation flowed around him, his gaze was drawn across the great hall to where she sat at the same table she’d been sitting at the night she’d arrived, under the clan banners. She was wearing a gown of royal blue that fit her very enticingly, and he obviously wasn’t the only one who thought so. As supper proceeded, no less than five of his unwed warriors stopped at the table to speak with her, and he was pleased when she looked wary and the warriors departed quickly, as if she would not engage with them, but then he was frustrated with himself that he could not seem to make himself quit watching her. And when Clyde, who was known for his conquests of the lasses, stopped in front of her at her table, and Lenora and Lillith waved Clyde to sit in the seat that Danaria had just departed from, Royce’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Then he grinned when Abigail got the same wary look upon her face.
As the time wore on, however, and Clyde remained at her table in front of her, her posture visibly relaxed. Soon she was gesturing wildly, as if telling a story, and she and Clyde shared a laugh together. And not just any laugh. It was hearty and caused Abigail to throw her head back with the force of it. He didn’t like that Clyde had made her laugh like that, and he especially didn’t like that he cared.
When the tables were cleared to the sides of the room for dancing, Royce felt certain she would not partake, given her hesitancy at dancing before, but then Lenora and Lillith said something and Lenora got out of her seat, went around to Abigail’s side, and tugged on her arm until she was standing. Royce found himself gripping the edge of the dais, waiting to see what she would do. When Clyde stood, as well, and held out his hand to Abigail, Royce’s gut clenched, and then his breath whooshed from his lungs as she placed her delicate hand in Clyde’s.
“Ye’ll break the table if ye keep gripping it like that,” Brus said from Royce’s left.
Before Royce could react to that comment, Father Murdoch added, “Why nae go intervene and ask the lass to dance yerself?”
“Oh, he dunnae wish to dance with the lass,” Brus hurried to respond. “Royce would rather sit here staring at her, longing for her, but nae doing a thing about it because fear holds him captive.”
“Our laird is nae fearful,” Father Murdoch said, his tone chastising.
“Thank ye, Murdoch,” Royce said to the elder man.
“I’d be fearful to ask such a bonny, braw, kind lass to dance, as well. Ye may just find ye like her, and ye’re far too wise to welcome the complication a woman would bring into yer life again.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed on the clever priest. “Spit out what ye wish to say.”
“Me?” The priest picked up his goblet and took a big swig. “What would I have to say of import? Everyone knows I’m just a drunkard.”
Except Royce had noted that the priest had not over imbibed once since he’d returned from his last trip with Ragnar. “I think mayhap ye like yer drink a little less than ye used to.”
Father Murdoch grinned. “It’s nice of someone to finally notice.”
“What brought on this change, Father?” Brus asked.
“I had an encounter with the seer Moira on my voyage. She told me I had an important role to play coming up and that the drink would make me miss my chance to redeem myself and make all right with God.”
“Did she now?” Royce said, not one to discount what a seer said. Their ability to accurately see into the future had been demonstrated repeatedly in his family throughout clan history.
The priest nodded. “Aye, she did, and I reckon my role has to do with the lass Abigail.”
“How?” Royce asked, curious despite himself.
Father Murdoch toyed with his beard for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I dunnae rightly know yet,” he admitted, “but I do know the lass needs a protector, and I’m drawn to help her find one. Mayhap she and Clyde will join as husband and wife.”
Jealously rushed through Royce at the idea. “Nay.”
“Nay?” Father Murdoch repeated, seemingly innocent, though Royce was aware the man was leading him.
“Clyde dunnae have a true bone for lasses in his body. He likes the hunt too much.”
“What sort of man do ye think the lass needs?”
“One who puts her above himself always. One who—” He clamped his jaw shut and glanced to the dance floor once more, grinding his teeth at the sight of Abigail surrounded by several of his warriors, all vying for her attention. Two of his men seemed to be about to argue over gaining the next dance with her, and the fact that he could not allow himself to be one of them snapped his control.
He shoved back from his seat and was down the dais and across the great hall to where Abigail stood between the two warriors just as one went to punch the other. Abigail put her hand up to stop the one man and nearly got hit herself. Royce grabbed her by the arm, tugged her out of the fray about to erupt, and shoved her behind him. The music faltered, and silence fell in the great hall. His temples pounded with irritation at himself for wanting her so much, at her for being so bonny, and at his men for wanting her, as well.
“Ye two,” he said to the young foolish warriors who’d started to fight. “Ye’re both on wall duty for the next sennight for yer behavior. This hall is nae a place to come to blows amongst yerselves. We are one clan, and we kinnae ever let anyone divide us if we are to stay powerful. Do ye understand?” he thundered.
“Aye, Laird,” the men answered quickly.
Royce caught Clyde’s smug look out of the corner of his eye. Did the man think he would send the two warriors away, and then Clyde could swoop back in to conquer Abigail? “Clyde, go see to the men’s new appointment.”
Clyde opened his mouth as if to protest, his face flushed red, but then he said, “Aye, Laird,” between clenched teeth.
Royce watched Clyde stalk off, well aware he’d angered the captain. He was also well aware he didn’t care one damned bit. A feeling strummed through him—one of possession. He gritted his teeth against the reaction and faced Abigail. “Ye’d do well to remember yer duty is to seeing to the care of my girls, nae chasing my warriors.”
Abigail’s eyes flashed fire as they narrowed. “I was not chasing your warriors,” she said, her words volleyed at him like arrows. “Your girls insisted I dance with Clyde. I do believe they wish to match me to him. I did decline all the other warriors’ invitations, and I did try to decline Clyde’s, but he was most insistent and your girls fairly shoved me at him.”
Royce knew it to be true. He’d seen it. And yet his anger still simmered. Jealousy, unfounded and unwanted, boiled in his blood. “Perhaps if ye did nae dress so alluringly,” he growled, his gaze clinging now to the way the blue silk gown molded to her curves. He should look away, but damned if his eyes would heed the command his brain was sending them. Instead of averting his gaze, he found himself inching it first down her luscious form to the dip of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips, then back up over the same tempting expanse to her “pretties” as his sister called them, which were the most annoyingly perfect pretties he believed he’d ever seen, even fully covered. Finally, he jerked his gaze to her face and found her lips parted and her eyes wide. She’d been watching him gawk at her like the clot-heid he was.
“’Tis time for ye to retire,” he ordered, in desperate need of an escape back to the loch for yet another cooling off. But God’s blood, he was not about to leave her in the great hall for more of his men to try to conquer her. It would drive him mad if it were to occur, and it didn’t make a difference whether it was reasonable or not.
“Are you ordering me to my bedchamber?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Aye. Aye, I am. And when next ye come out, do nae dress in such a gown,” he said, motioning to the one she had on.
“Or you’ll throw me in the loch?” she demanded, no humor there now, only arched eyebrows and pressed lips. And she had a right to be annoyed. God above, he knew she did, and yet, he could not force his mouth to form the words to apologize for behaving like an arse.
“I must have order in my clan,” he said instead. “And ye bring disorder. If ye continue to do so—”
“You’ll send me away,” she whispered, worry skittering across her beautiful face.
He was the biggest arse that the good lord had ever created. But sending her away? It would solve most his problems, and yet, the notion made him flinch. But he couldn’t back down or go forward.
“I’ve duties to attend,” he said. “Just heed the order, aye?” Would she take that to mean not to take up with one of his men? God, he hoped so, though he had no right at all to demand such a thing.
“Certainly, Laird. I’ll be the most orderly member of your clan from this moment forward.” With that, she spun in her heel, shoved her shoulders back, and strode through the clanspeople who had once again resumed dancing.
He watched her until he could see her no more, and then he slowly counted to ten to give her time to depart the corridor outside the hall so that when he left for the loch, they’d not encounter each other. When he decided sufficient time had passed, he started through the crowd, ignoring the curious looks from the women and his warriors. He was almost at the door when Brus materialized from between a throng of people and stepped into his path.
“Where are ye going, Brother? For another swim in the loch?”
Royce glared at him. “Move yer arse before I move it nae so gently for ye.”
“Calm yerself,” Brus said. “I’ll move, but I feel compelled to give ye some advice.”
“Give it,” Royce gritted through his teeth.
“All this swimming in the icy loch is nae good for yer bollocks. Ye may wish to use them again someday.”
“Verra funny,” Royce growled, then shoved Brus out of his way to head, yet again, to the freezing water to try to cool the heat that Abigail kept flaring in him.