Wishing For a Highlander (8 page)

Aye. He’d forget about Malina, all right. When the oceans swallowed Scotia and sent her, hills, vales, lochs, and all to the bottom of the sea.

“Best be off,” Edmund said. He took her hand and placed it in Darcy’s as the woman’s da would have done were he here.

Regret sliced his heart. He didn’t want to let this woman go. In his bones he felt she belonged to him, now and for all time.

But the feel of her hand, like a chip of smooth ivory that might shatter if a man gripped it too tightly, reminded him just how foolish he was for contemplating keeping her. He could never be a proper husband to any woman, especially one so small. Placing her hand carefully in the crook of his elbow, he met her trusting eyes.

“Best not keep Steafan waiting.”

* * * *

Melanie let Darcy lead her under the grim portcullis and through a heavily-reinforced oak door into Ackergill Castle. Based on the squat building’s utilitarian, no-frills exterior, she’d expected the inside to be just as cold and functional. What met her instead was a warm, bustling home, every bit as welcoming as Edmund and Fran’s cottage. Hanging tapestries, plentiful rugs and rushes covering the wooden floors, and golden light flickering over every room and corridor made the keep seem much smaller and cozier than it looked from the outside. They also gave her history-loving eyes plenty to look at instead of the mouthwatering Highlander at her side.

He’s not for you, Mel. He belongs here, and you belong five hundred years in the future. It’s like window-shopping. Just because something looks sexy on the rack doesn’t mean you’ve got to take it home with you.

But surely it wouldn’t hurt to try him on…

She shook her head and tried to wiggle her hand out from the crook of his arm; with her fingers in such close proximity to his bulging bicep, she found it challenging to focus on her goal of getting home. But Darcy brought his other hand up to pin hers at the bend of his elbow. Her hand thus imprisoned, he led her past a large room of stone-flag floors and wooden beams where revelers lifted tankards and danced to fiddle-music. That must be the great hall. She craned her neck, trying to memorize every detail of the scene as he hurried her along.

She didn’t blame him for being in a hurry. Judging by the look on his face when he’d told Aodhan he’d be responsible for her, he found her presence here about as inconvenient as she did. Though she occasionally glimpsed in his eyes something much warmer than annoyance, she told herself he just appreciated her the way she appreciated him, as a member of the opposite sex who was easy on the eyes but off limits for innumerable reasons.

Which was why she was in a hurry, too. The sooner she got home, and away from Darcy, the sooner her hormones would cool and everything would go back to normal.

Although, her hormones hadn’t exactly been cool back in Charleston. Those fickle, pregnancy-frenzied little chemicals had tempted her into making that stupid wish, and look where giving in to temptation had gotten her. She vowed not to make any more impulsive decisions. She’d keep calm, keep herself out of trouble in this foreign place and time, and find her way home.

If she felt a small pit of discomfort at the thought of leaving, she chose to ignore it. She refused to remember the brief moment of insanity when she’d watched Fran move with such purpose and ease around her cottage, and longed to remain in the sixteenth century for a while where she could roll around in history like a puppy in a pile of clean laundry. She refused to acknowledge her desire to get to know Fran better. Her desire to get to know Darcy better, much better.

This is not a vacation
.

More like a nightmare. And she was ready to wake up. She clung to Darcy’s words as they’d left Edmund and Fran’s cottage:
“’Twill be over soon.”

The shouts and fiddles from the great hall died away as he led her up a carpeted stairway to the third and top floor of the keep. At the end of a short hall, he stopped before a closed door and knocked. No one answered.

“Go on inside,” said someone behind them.

She whirled around to see a man nearly as broad as he was tall, which meant he was about five feet tall and four feet wide at the shoulder, ambling toward them. He had a long black beard and a balding pate too freckled to reflect the torchlight. His eyes crinkled in friendly acknowledgement, but she’d seen enough mob movies to recognize an enforcer when she saw one. The man had a hard mouth and enormous fists that looked as though their sole purpose was to inflict pain.

“Hamish,” Darcy greeted. “Is Steafan in the great hall?”

“Aye. But he’s expecting you. Word gets ’round.” Beetle-black eyes appraised her before his lower lip pushed out in approval. “I expect he’ll have noticed ye come in. Help yourself to the good whisky.”

Darcy pushed open the door. “Best not offend Hamish,” he said quietly after closing it on the short man. He began pacing back and forth over the woven rug before the laird’s desk, a walnut masterpiece she immediately went to and began caressing. Carved leaves and vines along the legs and sides teased her fingers with polished elegance.

“Or Steafan for that matter,” Darcy went on, oblivious to her fascination with the furniture. “In fact, ’tis probably best if ye leave the talking to me. I dinna wish for your speech to draw my uncle’s suspicion.”

She nodded distractedly, letting the silky black feathers of a quill in a silver stand tickle the backs of her knuckles. She reached for a silver inkwell with a crystal stopper. When Darcy went still and silent, she glanced up to find him giving her a deadly serious look.

She stopped fondling the laird’s possessions. “All right,” she agreed. “I won’t talk. So, what’s the plan here? You say, ‘Hi, uncle. This is Melanie. She’s not an English spy, and she’s just passing through. Just thought I’d introduce her to you, so you know what’s going on in your little kingdom.’ He’ll say, ‘Welcome, Melanie-who’s-not-an-English-spy. Have a lovely stay.’ And then we’ll be on our way, right? You’ll put me up somewhere until I can figure out how to get home?” Even to her ears it sounded overly optimistic.

He shook his head as if processing her best-case scenario gave him a headache. Finally, his face opened with understanding. His mouth twitched with humor before a shadow darkened his eyes. “’Twould certainly be nice if it could be so simple. But whatever happens tonight, ye need no’ fash that I’ll keep my word to you.”

“I know. I can tell you’re a man of your word. Thank you. I think I’ll need your help. Without that box, I’m–” Would he know what
screwed
meant? “Knee deep in manure with ankle-high boots,” she settled on, channeling her grandmother.

A chuckle rolled from his chest, melting some of the tension from his shoulders. He sobered. “Dinna fash yourself. All will be well.”

The door opened. She recognized Laird Steafan from his impeccable dress and regal carriage. He wore a forest-green great kilt shot through with gold and gray in the true clan-tartan style, which would have been rare and highly fashionable at this time in history. It looked just like the one Darcy had put on after dinner, only rather than pleating and wrapping the upper portion around one shoulder, Steafan wore his in a cloak-style so the fabric surrounded him in complicated sheets and folds. A yellowish-orange shirt of heavy, pleated linen peeked around the kilt at the man’s neck and wrists. Steafan had brown eyes the same rich shade as Darcy’s, but with none of the warmth or vulnerability. His hair was red. Not orange or auburn or reddish. Red. A shade so deep you could drown in it. His beard and moustache were just as red, as if he’d been snorkeling in a bowl of cranberry juice.

Hamish entered behind Steafan and closed the door, where he assumed a standard bodyguard stance. Steafan strode to the fireplace and faced the room with his doeskin shoes spread confidently and his hands on his hips as if posing for a portrait.

She concentrated on not rolling her eyes.

“Aodhan tells me ye found yourself a wee lass beneath a Gunn,” he said in a self-important brogue, bypassing any kind of greeting.

She frowned, not caring for his interpretation of where she had been found. She had, in fact, gotten out from under the Gunn well before Darcy rounded that boulder.

“Uncle.” Darcy inclined his head respectfully. “I present to you Melanie. She isna from Scotia, but Aodhan and the others agree she isna English. She seeks our hospitality.”

Steafan’s shrewd gaze snapped to hers, and she averted her eyes to the plush rug, as she imagined a harmless, obedient woman of this time might do. After everything she’d heard, she didn’t want to give him any reason to mistrust her, and acting like an empowered, independent, twenty-first century woman would most definitely rouse his suspicions.

“Aodhan also tells me ye have claimed responsibility for her.”

“I have,” Darcy said.

“Why?” Steafan asked.

“Because I thought Aodhan was about to, and I didna want him to have her,” he answered without skipping a beat.

She dropped the act and turned a sharp look on Darcy.
Have her?
Had she been in danger of being had by Aodhan? If Aodhan didn’t “have her” did that mean Darcy did “have her?” She opened her mouth to ask what the heck she had missed, but Darcy silenced her with a warning look as if he’d anticipated her confusion.

Steafan burst out in good-natured laughter. His hands came off his hips and he transformed from a terrifying laird to just a man. “Your honesty is always refreshing, lad.” As his laughter died off, he went to a table by the hearth and poured two glasses of amber liquid. Offering one to Darcy, he raked his gaze over her in a blatant appraisal that made her feel more vulnerable than any twenty-first century man ever had. She resisted the urge to place her hands protectively over her belly. Drawing attention to what the dress’s empire waist hid probably wouldn’t be smart.

“A bonny wee thing ye are,” Steafan said more to himself than to her. He threw back his drink and set the glass on the mantle, then moved so close the smoky notes of scotch on his breath seared her nostrils.

Beside her, Darcy sipped from his glass. Though he appeared at ease, his arm brushed her shoulder in a tight, jerky movement betraying his tension. Steafan might be relaxed for the moment, but Darcy’s body language communicated how very transient Steafan’s good moods were apt to be.

Though uneasiness churned in her, she held her tongue as Darcy had instructed, reminding herself that she was in a potentially dangerous situation.
Do not offend the temperamental laird,
she repeated to herself.

Steafan turned his attention to Darcy. “You have come in your finest plaid, and that is one of Janine’s gowns.” He nodded in her direction. “One of her finer ones. Your da would be proud to see your betrothed looking so bonny in your mother’s dress.”

Betrothed?

Before she could react to what Steafan had just said, he clapped his hands and turned to Hamish. “Fetch Aodhan. He’s in the great hall. You and he shall serve as witnesses.”

Hamish left obediently.

Ignoring Darcy’s warning grip on her elbow, she faced Steafan and said, “Excuse me, did you say betrothed?” She wheeled on Darcy. “Did he say betrothed? Why would he say that? What does he need witnesses for?”

Darcy’s shoulders rounded.

Steafan chuckled. It was a self-satisfied sound. A mean sound.

“Aye,” Darcy admitted, meeting her eyes with seeming difficulty. “He said betrothed. We are to be wed this night, Malina.”

“What?”

Steafan’s chuckling increased in volume and irritation quotient. She glared at him, and he showed his teeth in response. “Be careful, lass. I am not one to cross. You arena in a position to demand explanations. If ye want them, ye’ll have to ask nicely.”

Her jaw fell open. “Who do you think you are?” she asked as Darcy pulled her behind him.

“Dinna listen to her, uncle. She is from afar and she doesna ken our ways.”

She strained to look around Darcy and saw Steafan’s eyes darken with fury. “She asks who I think I am, lad. Mayhap a night in the stocks will enlighten her. Your wedding can wait until she understands who her host and future laird is, and has learned not to cross him.”

Uh-oh. So much for remaining inconspicuous and keeping herself out of trouble. But how was she supposed to remain contrite and silent when she’d just learned her only ally here had manipulated her into this…this…she didn’t even know what to call this. The Scottish version of a shotgun wedding?

“No,” Darcy said, his voice near a growl. “Not the stocks. She willna speak out of line again.” As he said it, he cut her a warning glare over his shoulder.

She gave Darcy The Look, the one that let a person know he was one step away from meeting with serious harm. She’d been wrong; this wasn’t a nightmare. This was hell. Fear and betrayal iced down her spine. Darcy’s hands, which had infused her with comfort earlier, now made her feel trapped. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and backed away, scooting behind Steafan’s desk to put the enormous thing between her and the two treacherous Highlanders.

Make that four treacherous Highlanders. Hamish and Aodhan strode in, Aodhan’s eyebrows climbing his forehead.

“I see ye’ve told her what it means for a Keith to claim a woman,” he said to Darcy. Looking at her across the desk, he said, “Dinna be hard on the lad. If he hadna done it, I would have, and me with three daughters for you to become second mother to. I would ha’ been good to ye, lass, but Darcy, he will worship you.” He winked at Darcy, then spread some papers on the desk and reached for the black-feathered quill. “I have the contract ready, Steafan. Begin when ye wish.”