Hannah and the Highlander (2 page)

Without conscious thought, Hannah scanned the crowd for another glimpse of that dark warrior, the one who made her body warm in a way it never had—though she would have denied it had anyone asked. Her mood drooped when she realized he was gone. “I think I've had enough of this,” she said. There was no point in staying if there was nothing truly impressive to see.

“Oh, doona go,” Susana cooed. “Olrig might bend over again.”

“Precisely.” Hannah swallowed a laugh. Once a decade was often enough for that view. Too often. “I think I may go visit the castle library.”

“There's a shock.”

“Do come with me.”

Susana wrinkled her pert nose. “Stare at a room full of dusty tomes? I'd rather watch the games.”

“And imagine how you could defeat them all?”

“Hardly a flight of fancy.” It wasn't a boast. Susana had an aim so true, she could shoot a bird from the sky. Hannah couldn't hit the broad side of a castle. Unless, of course, she was aiming for something else. Likely Susana could outshoot every man in attendance. A pity she would not be invited to do so.

The gathering was for the men. Leaders from all over the region and their families had converged on Barrogill for this important meeting. The tiny village was no match for such an influx and the castle could hardly accommodate them all, so most of the lairds had set up tents on the lands surrounding the castle. The result was much like a festival. The games this afternoon would be followed by the convocation of lairds, to which none of the ladies had been invited.

Papa had dragged her to this gathering of the clans in hopes that she would settle on a husband, but the up close and personal inspection of the contenders had done nothing but harden her heart against them all.

She glanced at her sister, whose attention was fixated on the field. “I'll see you later then?”

“Hmm.” Susana didn't even look up. The archery competition had begun.

Hannah sighed and started up the path leading through the assembled tents to the castle, which was perched on the top of a rise overlooking Pentland Firth. Though the keep was very old, dating back three hundred years, it had been well tended. It rose like a sparkling jewel, surrounded by a verdant swath of green lawn.

It was rumored to have a superb library.

And ghosts. Lana would have loved that. It was a pity she had not come to the gathering. Lana didn't care for crowds and had stayed home with Susana's daughter, Isobel.

Now Isobel? Isobel would have loved this. She was far too much like her mother.

The sounds of laughter and music faded behind her as Hannah made her way through the sprawling gardens, glorying in the stiff, salt-tinged breeze and the desolate vista of the churning sea beyond. The sun slanted in the sky, bathing the trees and flowers with a soft, peaceful glow. A kestrel wheeled overhead and she paused to watch its flight. She loved nature, in all its glory, and nothing was more glorious than an afternoon in Scotland on a lovely day in May. It was—

“There ye be.”

Hannah's step faltered as a deep male voice wafted toward her. She turned and raked her hair from her eyes; the wind had kicked up, dancing her tresses about her face.

Oh, bother.
Niall had followed her.

Skating a look around the garden, she realized, with a tightening in her gut, no one else was about. Likely, they were all watching the games. She sucked in a breath and braced herself for his presence. Part of her mind began planning the excuses she might offer to slip away. Of all the people she'd like to meet in a deserted garden—however pleasant it was—Niall was at the bottom of the list.

He stumbled as he scampered up the rise and then he stumbled again as he came abreast with her. Even without those clues, she would have known he'd been drinking. He stank of whisky.

“Niall.”

He fixed a thin grin on his face as he dabbed the sweat from his brow. “Ye walk fast.”

A complaint? Hannah didn't care. She hadn't wanted his company to begin with. She glanced toward the castle, where the legendary library awaited … and sighed. Perhaps she could see it another time. It didn't seem wise to venture there with a drunken Scotsman by her side.

When she turned to head back toward more populated surrounds, he skittered to keep up. “Hannah.” A gasp. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Aye?” She didn't stop. Indeed, she walked faster. Something about him set her teeth on edge, and the vast solitude that had been so pleasing a moment ago was now unnerving.

He halted her with a hard hand on her arm. She frowned at him. He didn't take the hint. “I said I wanted to talk to you,” he said sharply.

The thread of command in his voice irritated her and the avaricious glint in his eye made the hairs on her nape prickle. “You can talk as we walk.”

“Nae.” His grip tightened.

“Niall, let me go.” She tried to jerk free but couldn't.

His brow furrowed; anger simmered in his eyes. “I've offered for you twice,” he said. “You denied me both times. Why have you not accepted my suit?”

Hannah tugged impatiently. “I haven't accepted anyone's suit.”

His eyes narrowed to piggy slits. “I'm hardly just
anyone
. My father is a verra powerful man.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn't be marrying your father, now would I?”

She should have known better than to taunt him. He was petulant and childish and a bully. His grip tightened to the point her fingers went numb. There would, no doubt, be a bruise. He leaned closer and hissed, “It willna go well for you, and your family, if you refuse me.”

A threat?
Fury rose within her and she yanked at her hand. He did not release it. “I will marry when I am damn good and ready. Now let me go.”

He looked her up and down with a sneer. “Yer practically on the shelf.”

Charming.
Granted, at twenty-two she was well past the age most girls wed—indeed, Susana had married years ago—but Hannah was hardly on the shelf. Aside from which, if she was to marry it would not be this man. It would never be this man.

“Niall…” A warning tone.

He was not warned. He edged closer. “I willna be denied, Hannah.” His breath was fusty and foul as he spat, “Perhaps you need some incentive.”

Ach.
She didn't like the sound of that at—

Her thoughts scattered as he yanked her toward him, whipped her around, and slammed her against a tree. Then he pinned her body with his and smothered her with his mouth.

She nearly retched. For one thing, she didn't like being manhandled—she never had. For another, he tasted sour.

Without thought she plowed a fist into his soft gut. He doubled over with an
oof
, releasing her. She spun away, to sprint back to safety.

But he snatched at her skirts and caught her. She reached the end of her tether, as it were, and the impact caught her off guard; she tripped over her own feet, falling to the ground. The air whooshed out of her as she landed hard and smacked her chin against a stone. The impact dazed her, so she didn't move away quickly enough. Before she realized it, he was on her.

With a snarl he flipped her over onto her back and covered her, his hard groin an uncomfortable pressure against her belly. He fisted his hands in her hair and held her still as he pressed yet another kiss on her mouth. She thrashed from side to side to escape the noxious fumes, bellowing at him as best she could around the gag of his tongue.

“Shut up,” he snapped, leaning up to work at something at his waist. With horror, she realized he was undoing his breeks. She tried to bring her knee up into his crotch, as she'd been taught, but he sidled between her legs, pinning her with her own skirts. When she flailed him with a series of blows to the head, he caught her hands and pinioned them with one of his.

He hovered over her, staring at her hungrily. His avid expression made something unpleasant slither through her. She knew—just
knew
—what would happen next if she didn't stop him. The prospect sickened her.

Frustration, anger, and revulsion slammed through her with every beat of her heart.

“My father is going to kill you,” she hissed. And he would. If Susana didn't do so first.

Niall just laughed and tried to kiss her again. She turned her head away. Undeterred, he landed slobbery busses along her jaw. “Ye'll be ruined. Ye'll have to marry me.”

“I'll never marry you.”

Probably not the best thing to say to such an ardent suitor. It only infuriated him more. His eyes narrowed. A red tide crept up his face. “I will have ye,” he muttered, wriggling around to yank up her dress.

And then he froze. His entire body went still.

At the same moment, a wolfish growl rippled through the garden. It danced on the skeins of air, making the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She peeped to the left and her pulse leaped.

A tall man stood over them with a sword—what looked like an ancient claymore. It was nested between Niall's legs, right where it counted. The glare of the sun blotted out the man's features, but his silhouette, broad, bulging, and shimmering with rage, was that of an avenging angel. He shifted then, just a tad, and his face became visible.

Hannah's breath caught. It was
him
. Her warrior.

Ah, God, he was magnificent. A trill of relief and an unaccountable excitement shot through her.

He was still dressed in the plaid he'd donned for the games, but this close he was even more impressive. His belly was flat and hard and layered with thick muscle, his arms bulged as he flexed, and his legs, in a wide stance, were rooted like tree trunks.

But his face …
Ach.
His face.

He was savage and fierce. He had a ferocious look about him, with rawboned features, a broad brow, high cheekbones, and a long blade of a nose. A ragged scar tracked its way down his left cheek.

And he was angry. His jaw bunched.

“Shite!”
This from Niall, and naught more than a peep. He skittered away from the sharp tip of the sword and rolled to the side, which was a relief; without his weight on her, Hannah could breathe again. He scrambled to his feet and forced a laugh, though his eyes were locked on the fat sword. “We were just … having a chat.”

The warrior's lip curled. His gaze narrowed.

“Well, we were—” Niall's throat worked.

A growl. Nothing more than a growl—low-throated and expressive beyond words.

Niall caught his meaning at once and
eeped
. Then he turned tail and ran.

While Hannah had watched this vignette with something akin to amusement, when Niall left and she was suddenly alone with this intimidating behemoth it didn't seem so funny. She didn't know this man, and he was very large. His eyes blazed with intensity.

She could well have leaped from the pan into the fire.

But before she had time to consider this, before a new fear had the opportunity to sprout, he sheathed his sword and knelt at her side.

Knelt.

His heat surrounded her. His presence enfolded her. The lines of his face dazzled her. His gaze … paralyzed her. There were flecks of gold in his creamy brown orbs, she noticed of a sudden, and his lashes were unnaturally long. And his lips … my, they were fine-looking, lush lips.…

When he lifted a finger, she didn't flinch away. He touched her chin, right where it still throbbed, but with a heartrending gentleness. He quirked a brow; his question was clear.

“I-I'm f-fine,” she said, though her tongue barely worked. Or perhaps it was her brain that had seized. All she could think about was … those lips. Those exquisite lips.

His expression warmed and he nodded, and then he stood and reached out a hand.

She took it.

Purely on instinct.

She took it, and he raised her up onto her feet, holding her steady when she wobbled. Though her knees were weak, it wasn't due to the reaction of Niall's attack. It was because the sensation of this man's palm scraping over hers was dizzying.

She should have been mortified to collapse against his rock-hard chest—she was hardly a collapsing kind of girl—but she wasn't mortified. Indeed, it was quite pleasant. His heat, his scent, surrounded her.

He gazed down at her in silence—as she gazed at him, thinking about those lips. When his head lowered, an unholy thrill shot through her.

He was going to kiss her.

Oh, yes, please.

Where the prospect of Niall's kisses disgusted her, there was an entirely different kind of emotion raging through her now.

Want. Need. Probably a result of reaction, of the blood pumping in her veins, but she could not deny it.

Ah, but he didn't kiss her. Not really. With a murmur, he touched his lips to her chin, so softly, barely a whisper, brushing against the growing bruise.

It was a sweet gesture. A tender buss.

And absolutely not what she had in mind.

So she tipped her head, just slightly … and captured his lips.

The feel of him, the taste of him, shocked her. Earthy. Warm. A hint of velvet and mint. There was another flavor too, one she couldn't identify. It was distinctly him, and it was irresistible. She pressed closer.

To her surprise, he lurched back, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Her gut tightened at his retreat; she hadn't been finished exploring. Indeed, she could explore this man all day.

He stared down at her, his attention fixated on her mouth. His fingers on her hips flexed. The moment hummed between them. She knew—she just
knew
—he was going to kiss her again. Her breath hitched as exhilaration flared. Knowledge. Recognition.

This was a man who incited that illusive passion she'd always craved but thought beyond her reach.

This was a man to whom she might be tempted to surrender all.