Highlander Claimed

And he noticed. The black pupils of his eyes grew, swallowing all but the outer blue edge of his irises. This sudden darkening made him appear all the more dangerous.

I was unsettled enough to consider how I could carefully lower his head back to the furs, to remove myself from his hold, but his hand remained coiled around my hair.

“Your hair is so fair,” he said. “As wheat. As honey. As gold.”

And I didn’t want to run from him. His touch was too delicious. I knew it was sinful to gain pleasure from such things, but it was hardly a most pressing concern. Here I was, a traitor and a thief. In the past few days, I’d stabbed two men, stolen as much food as I could carry and now found myself trapped with a fearsome warrior who might just as well kill me as save me. My list of crimes grew longer by the hour. Kissing a handsome stranger was the very least of my wrongdoings. Surprised by my own urges, I leaned ever so slightly forward, allowing his mouth just the tiniest bit closer...

The thoughts evaporated as his mouth closed over my breast. Even through the thin veil of my shift, the pressure was exquisite as he pulled my nipple farther into the hot flame of his mouth, licking his tongue against the underside of the tip, biting gently with his teeth. The scraping, scalding pressure funneled into my body, between my legs, where I grew moist and swollen, tingling with expectation.

A small moan escaped me, and him, too, as he moved to reach for my other breast. He held the full weight with his large hand, rousing sparking pleasure in my body with the pinching, circling pressure of his fingers.

It startled me, my reaction to him, the need he summoned in me. But I offered no protest when he lifted the front of my shift to gain access to my bare breasts. He gasped a savage, deep sound, touching me with the most careful placement of his fingers, rubbing me gently and pulling me to his mouth. With no barriers between my skin and the slippery play of his tongue, the craving that had begun the very first time I’d looked into his eyes grew in its power. The pulsing heavy ache in my nipples as he teased me with his teeth and his mouth swelled and compounded to touch my heart, my core, my soul, overwhelming me entirely. I held his head, stroking his hair, offering myself to him.

“Angel,” he said, almost panting. “You’re a dream, yet I feel you. I’ve never felt so much. Do you feel me?”

“I feel you, warrior. I feel all of you. Everywhere.”

“How can you be here, like this, burning me so? You can’t be real. Who knew death would be so enchanting and so achingly beautiful?”

His words slurred at the end, and it occurred to me then that he might have been somewhat delirious and that his heavy breaths and his moans were double-edged. He needed to be careful not to rip his stitches, and the way his arm had looped itself around my waist was endangering his recovery. I suspected that the severity of his injury was the only reason I was able to extricate myself from his grip, to place his head gently on the furs and lie next to him.

“You must rest, warrior. I’ll stay here with you.” My fingers smoothed his unruly hair.

“Roses,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Aye. I’m here.”

“Where have you come from?” he asked. “Why are you alone?”

Only hours ago I had fought against him to avoid a very similar question. But now, softly touching his chest, with his hand cupping my face and his blue eyes vivid and sublime, I wanted to give him whatever he asked of me. I wanted to satisfy his curiosity, and more.

“Clan Ogilvie.”

“Ogilvie?” He contemplated me thoughtfully, as though surprised by this information. “You don’t look like an Ogilvie.”

“I wasn’t born an Ogilvie. I was adopted as a child of three or four.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know, warrior. My origins are a mystery.” A wretched mystery that had left me with a small inked tattoo and a restless spirit. “And now I work at the Ogilvie keep as a kitchen servant. Or at least I did. Until yesterday.”

His thumb brushed across my bottom lip. He studied my face as I studied his. I could feel his aching beauty down to the pit of my stomach.

“I have many questions to ask you, mysterious angel,” he said, “but first I need you to kiss me again. Your lips are too sweet. If I’m to die, let it be with your taste in my mouth. Kiss me, angel. I’ll die a happy man.”

“You’ll not die, warrior.” The thought jarred me. I needed to seek out help for him. I felt his forehead. Too warm.

He murmured a husked word that might have been please.

I leaned over him, running my fingers along the rough surface of his jaw. His dark-lit blue eyes were dreamlike, his lips beckoning me. I touched my lips to his, as I had once before. His hand reached to grip the nape of my neck with raw strength, even in his weakened state. He held me in place as he returned the kiss. I felt his tongue lick my top lip, then slide gently between them. As soon as my lips parted, his tongue delved farther. He tasted of desire and of sweet hunger. I opened to him, wanting everything about this connection to continue. I had never felt anything like the sensation this warrior delivered with the touch of his tongue to mine.

He seemed to forget himself then, and he moved as if to rise over me, to hold me closer. But the effort clearly speared him with pain. He fell back, releasing his hold.

“Warrior?” I whispered, but he was gone to me.

I could stay here and watch over him and do my best to help him. But I was not an expert healer. Ismay had taught me well in our many stolen moments, and she’d often commented on my natural abilities, but there was much I felt I still didn’t know.

I had to seek out his family, and quickly. They would take him home to his comfortable, lush chambers, to their team of healers and their stores of medicines, cooks offering hearty broths and ale, to the best care a man could be given.

I laid my riding blanket over him, up to the middle of his chest. And I adjusted my own clothing, pulling my shift back down into place. I replenished the bowl of water and left it within his reach. Then I found the bag of loot I’d stolen from his clan’s gardens. I put an arrangement of fruit next to the bowl of water.

“I must get help for you, warrior. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”

I took a moment to loosely stitch together the gaping rip in my tunic, at the shoulder, where Wilkie had sliced through it, making a small attempt to improve my ragged appearance. Then I eased it over my head and fitted it into place, taking care not to dislodge my bandage. I went to hunt for my sword, which, after some searching, I was able to find. I strapped it to my belt, grabbed three apples for myself, and began walking down the mountain toward the Mackenzie keep.

CHAPTER THREE

AS I APPROACHED THE guarded gates of the keep, I could take some comfort from the assumption that they were unlikely to turn me away. Not when I was the one who could lead them to their missing clansman. And not just any clansman: the laird’s powerful brother. Once he was returned to them, I hoped they would let me go, peacefully.

When Wilkie Mackenzie recovered—if he recovered—would he awaken in anger? I thought again of his kiss. Of his mouth on me. The fresh memory of it brought warmth to my body, and it infused me with an unrestful anticipation. But still, I was the one responsible for his injury. And if he died, it was possible that the blame would be placed on me. I might be punished or killed in retribution.

There was much activity in the vicinity of the Mackenzie keep. Search parties on horseback were taking leave, it appeared. Wilkie’s absence had made itself known.

Two guards watched my approach with puzzled expressions. I stood before them. “I would request to speak with Laird Mackenzie,” I said. “I have news of Wilkie Mackenzie’s whereabouts.”

The two guards looked at each other, skeptical, but they took my words seriously, and they didn’t waste time. “Follow me,” one of them instructed, and began walking toward the stone castle. Several young boys were playing in the gardens, and the guard called to them. They scampered over, eyeing me, my clothing.

“Run to the yards to see if the laird can be found there. He is needed in the hall urgently. Hurry to it!” he commanded them. The boys ran off, gleeful with their assignment.

I was led at a brisk pace along a wide path to the looming stone castle. I was struck again by the beauty and orderliness of the landscape. Workers paused in their tasks and stared at me as I walked alongside the guard. I envied these workers their teamwork and camaraderie, their clan and sense of belonging. I wished I, too, had a clan I could feel a part of and that I could be allowed to contribute to in a meaningful way. I had felt as if I’d belonged to the Ogilvie clan for a time, until the death of my father and my mother’s quickly following decline. Since then, I’d felt less like kin and more like a servant and outsider who didn’t quite fit either my role or my surroundings. My spirit had been well and truly stomped upon, my wings insistently clipped. In my heart, I felt my destiny lay elsewhere.

The guard escorted me through the giant wooden doors of the castle, into a grand entrance hall. Tapestries adorned the stone walls, and fine, wooden furniture decorated the room’s interior. The details and upkeep of the castle were clearly more refined and prosperous than those found in the Ogilvie keep.

I wondered, as I sat in a chair and waited for the guard to return, whether Wilkie had woken. I knew he would call out to me if he found me gone. I felt an undeniable longing to go back to him, to heal him with my own hands. But it was best this way. The fever was upon him, and his chances of survival were far greater under the care of his clan. And I badly wanted him to live.

Commotion and loud footsteps approached from the interior of the castle. And into the room strode a small crowd of people, led by an enormous man who could only have been Wilkie’s brother, Laird Mackenzie. His resemblance to Wilkie was striking, his hair equally as black, but he was even larger, his look more imposing. Rather than a vivid blue, his eyes were a distinct shade of light gray. To his right stood another brother. Kade, if I remembered correctly. This brother was similar in size but slighter, almost lanky, his hair a dark shade of brown, his eyes blue, like Wilkie’s, but lighter in hue. The look in his eyes suggested less restraint than his brothers, an innate recklessness that was, at a first impression, somewhat unsettling. This effect was further emphasized by the veritable arsenal he wore: several belts strung with a number of knives and swords, as well as a leather strap across his chest fitted with pouches and pockets where more small knives and other sharp objects were cached.

I stood.

They stared at me as though I had two heads, and I realized I must have looked strange to them. I’d been so distracted with Wilkie’s care, and the emotions inspired by his kisses, that I’d forgotten to braid my hair, which hung long and loose down my back. Still dressed in now-ragged men’s clothing, which I’d taken care to rid of bloodstains, but hadn’t been entirely successful with the task, and with a sword strung in my belt, I must have looked a right savage.

But there was little I could do about it now.

Before my study could wander further, the laird spoke.

“I am Laird Knox Mackenzie and this is my brother Kade Mackenzie. To whom do I speak?”

“My name is Roses.”

I was glad he didn’t ask me about my clan. There were more pressing questions on his mind. “You have news of Wilkie,” he said, with brusque impatience.

“Aye,” I said. “He is injured. I know where he lies, up the mountain to the west. I have stitched his wound, but I fear the fever is ailing him.”

The laird reacted instantly, barking orders at the assembly. “Fergus, prepare the horses and—”

“He’ll need a litter,” I said. “He can’t walk, and carrying him would injure him further.”

The laird’s head snapped in my direction, his face registering mild outrage. Kade looked almost amused.

All was briefly silent in the wake of my interruption.

“You and I will have a long talk upon our return,” the laird said to me, his glare blazingly direct. “First we find Wilkie.” He turned to his brother. “The lass can ride with you.”

“I can ride,” I offered, but my request was ignored. It seemed I was not to be trusted. Gratitude was not their foremost reaction to my sudden appearance, I reflected with some annoyance.

The group was quick to assemble, and I was led outside and hoisted upon a colossal horse, in front of Kade. “You’ll show me the path to Wilkie,” he said.

He wrapped massive arms around me and spurred his horse into a full gallop, followed closely by the others. I feared getting poked or speared with one of his many weapons, but I had no choice but to cling to him.

We made quick time of the flatlands and soon were traversing the steep slope of the hillside. It was so steeply inclined in places I feared our horses would flip from the weight of us, but the men were undeterred. I pointed out the path, and we reached the entrance of the cave just as dusk had given way to darkness.

“Here,” I said. Kade leaped from his horse, making no move to assist me, and he walked toward the cave with ground-eating strides, followed closely by the laird and several others. Kade’s horse was so large I had difficulty jumping down from the great height I found myself at. I swung my leg over and tried to lower myself to the ground but ended up falling into a painful heap. Brushing myself off, I walked over to the entrance of the cave, and crouched just inside, near where the men were circled, kneeling around Wilkie. The dying light cast a subtle glow into the small space.

“Brother,” said the laird, touching his hand to Wilkie’s forehead. “We’re taking you home.” Rigid concern lent a stern severity to the laird’s bold features as he exchanged looks with Kade. “He’s burning.”

Kade lifted the blanket I’d placed over Wilkie’s chest, pulling it down to reveal the lightly bandaged wound. He peeled this back, and each of them drew a quick intake of breath.

“You sewed this, lass?” the laird asked me.

“Aye.”

“Not a bad job of it,” Kade commented.

Wilkie stirred, his head rolling from side to side. “Roses,” he said, quite clearly, though his eyes were still closed.

“He’s delirious,” said the laird. “Let’s move him to the litter.”

“Roses,” Wilkie called out, louder this time.

Kade watched his brother, then his gaze slid to me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Roses,” I said quietly.

Kade nodded his head toward Wilkie in a curt, commanding gesture: I was being granted permission—or being ordered, perhaps—to go to him. I crawled over to Wilkie. I whispered in his ear, not caring if I was overheard, “I’m here, warrior.”

He settled instantly. His eyes opened, and he blinked several times as though struggling to keep them open. He reached up to lace his hand under my hair, around the back of my head. “Ah, lass. Such a beautiful dream, you are. Kiss me again.”

The laird looked less than pleased by the exchange, but he was studying his brother’s reaction with interest, obviously relieved to find him alive.

“’Tis time for you to go home,” I said softly. “Your brothers have come for you.”

“Stay with me, Roses,” he said drowsily, and it wasn’t a question.

I glanced at the laird, whose attention was directed at me. Would he allow it? His eyes followed Wilkie’s hand as it stroked through my hair, then fell at his side.

“Aye,” said Laird Mackenzie. “You’ll come. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I WAS NOT ONLY ALLOWED but also expected to remain at Wilkie’s side, as he was taken to his chambers and treated by the healer.

His chambers were large and, as expected, luxurious. Heavy furs hung at the windows to protect against the night breeze, which was becoming more biting with each passing day. A fire had been laid in a grand stone fireplace and crackled pleasantly, casting orange light. Wilkie’s bed was supported by four vertical carved wooden beams that reached to the ceiling and were hung with thick embroidered curtains, pulled back now, so the healer could attend to his injury.

I took my place in a chair by the fire as Wilkie’s attendants inspected and cleaned his wound. I was so exhausted, I could have slept in the hard wooden seat. My eyelids felt heavy, and I struggled to keep myself from drifting.

Kade and the laird hung back, watching the healer attend to their brother. In a flurry of commotion, two younger women rushed through the door, frantic with the news of Wilkie’s return. His sisters, it was easy to see, with their dark hair and blue eyes.

“Wilkie,” one of them gasped, pressing her hand to his brow. “He’s fevered,” she said.

“He’s alive, and home,” said the other sister, “and strong as an ox. He’ll be fine.” She adjusted his furs with extreme care, fussing over him.

I envied him, his family close around him, wrenching concern etched onto their faces.

The slightly taller sister, whose hair was as black as Wilkie’s, addressed the healer. “Effie, how severe are his injuries?”

“Quite severe,” replied Effie. “Who stitched this?” she asked the laird.

“’Twas the lass here,” the laird said. “Roses.” All eyes moved to me, but I was too tired to take much notice of their scrutiny, which soon shifted back to Wilkie.

Effie gave a noise that suggested she was mildly impressed. “It can remain in place. The wound itself has begun to heal. In fact, the quick stitching probably saved his life. ’Tis a nasty wound indeed.” She cleaned and bound Wilkie’s torso, then she prescribed a drink of cooled willowbark tea, which she scooped from a pot with a wooden goblet.

But when the women tried to hold his head to make him drink, he swiped the goblet away, sending it flying across the room where it struck the stone wall.

“You must take the drink, Wilkie,” Effie instructed him in a loud voice, as though he was deaf rather than fevered. But when they tried again, his reaction was even more violent, and his body began to thrash in agitation as he groaned with the pain of his own unrest.

“Roses,” the laird said, signaling for me to go to Wilkie. “You try.”

Uneasy under the room’s collective gaze, I walked to Wilkie’s bed. He lay in the middle of the expanse, so I had to climb up to sit next to him. I put my face close to his. “Warrior, you must drink. Let me hold the cup for you. It will cool your throat.”

He turned his face toward me but didn’t open his eyes. “Ach,” he barely whispered, a slow smile touching his mouth. “My angel has come to me.”

Effie handed me the goblet. I held Wilkie’s head, lifting him until his lips touched the rim. “Here it is. Take your drink, warrior,” I crooned. “That’s it, and a little more.”

He drank until the cup was empty.

“Stay with me,” he said drowsily. “Right here, where I can feel you.”

“Aye, warrior.”

I laid his head back on his pillow, more peaceful now. I made a move to slide off the bed, but Wilkie looped a large, muscular arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I tried to pry his fingers gently loose, attempting to unwrap his arm from around my hips where I lay practically on top of him. But Wilkie immediately began to protest, pulling me back to him and securing his hold around me, even more tightly. Through the haze of his fever, he murmured my name and other words of endearment that brought heat to my face, and elsewhere. The laird and Kade noticed my blush, which only worsened its effect.

I leaned up to Wilkie, whispering assurances close to his ear that I was still here, that I wouldn’t leave him. He quieted and loosened his hold, allowing me to sit. But I was still locked decisively in his ironclad grip.

“He requires rest,” announced Effie. She contemplated my placement next to Wilkie and the entwined clasp of our fingers. “The lassie looks dead on her feet. Would you like me to find a bed for her, Laird Mackenzie?”

Wilkie’s words were slurred but quite emphatic for a man infirmed. “She’ll sleep here. With me.”

At this, Kade chuckled quietly.

But the laird did not appear to be quite as amused. “She can sleep in the women’s chambers, and be brought to you on the morrow.”

This information appeared disagreeable enough to rouse Wilkie momentarily from his fugue. His eyes barely opened, and his voice was husked with illness, but he spoke clearly enough to be understood. “I need her. She keeps the darkness at bay.”

“Wilkie,” said the laird, and his voice was firm, as though he was confident he could talk some sense into his delusional brother. “Be reasonable. The lass is neither a figment of your imagination nor is she a captive. In fact we know next to nothing about who, indeed, the lass is—a mystery I aim to get to the bottom of as soon as she is rested. She’ll sleep in the extra bed in Christie’s chambers and we can all meet and discuss what’s to be done in the morning. Now—”

“Nay!” Wilkie’s voice sounded almost panicked, and his grasp grew stronger as he attempted to rise into a sitting position. “You’ll not take her. She’s mine.” But the pain in his side speared him, and he flinched, clenching my fingers all the while in a vise-grip, and fell back onto his pillows. Shocked by the agonized sound he made, I used my hands to gently hold him in place.

“Please, warrior,” I urged him, wiping away a tear from my cheek. “Sleep now. Don’t damage yourself further. The moment I’m allowed to return to you, I will.”

The lingering agony was taking its toll; Wilkie’s eyes were directed at me even as he spoke to his brother, and they were heavy-lidded as he slurred from the effects of the strong brew he’d been given. “I’ll die. The sight of her. Her touch... She heals me like no medicine could. Let her... Roses. Angel.” His voice faded as he struggled to retain consciousness. His grip on my body loosened as he succumbed to sleep.

“The man’s taken total leave of his senses, to be sure,” Kade said lightly, but he was watching Wilkie with worry.

One of the sisters spoke then. “Let me get some furs and make up the bed in Wilkie’s adjoining chambers. Please, Knox. Roses can sleep in there, in case he awakens and calls to her.” We hadn’t been formally introduced, but she’d clearly surmised my name during the proceedings. She sounded as if she’d already accepted Wilkie’s pleas and would do all she could to accommodate them.

“Aye,” said the other sister, eager excitement written into her features at the prospect of scandal. “I’ll sleep with her if you like, so she’ll be chaperoned. You must agree, Knox. There’s no need to agitate Wilkie further by removing Roses completely from his chambers when it’s clearly against his wishes. He’s obviously taken an attachment to her. And we must do everything we can to speed his recovery.”

Laird Mackenzie looked thoroughly irritated by the situation, but perhaps he was concerned enough about his brother’s obvious distress to make allowances. He glanced once at Kade, who shrugged and said, “’Tis a reasonable suggestion. We don’t want unnecessary agitation to worsen his condition. We can check in on them from time to time.”

The laird’s glance rested on me for a moment, as though attempting to read my motives. “I suppose we could.” With a heavy sigh, he said, “All right, then. Ailie, you make up the beds. Christie, you’ll sleep with Roses. Effie, you’ll see to the lass—the shoulder of her tunic is stained with fresh blood. She appears to be injured. You’ll tend to the lass’s wound. Kade, you’ll check in at regular intervals during the night.”

Once, it might have occurred to me to question or protest this blatantly inappropriate scenario of sleeping in the adjoining chambers of a man, and one I barely knew. In fact, I felt wildly relieved. I wouldn’t be cast out. And I could be near him, this warrior whose blood had mingled with my own and whose eyes and mouth and fingers had already provoked a longing in me that I could neither explain nor deny.