Juliette Miller - [Clan MacKenzie 02] Read online

  “Aye,” Kade grumbled. “We know how truthfully, and how often, you like to speak. Maybe you shouldn’t speak quite so much, little sister.” The endearment, tacked on as it was to his complaint, surprised me; clearly, there was great affection between the two, despite his reprimand.

  “Someone has to,” Christie replied, “otherwise we’d be all mired in a dull, morose silence. Poor Stella, she’ll wonder what kind of family she married into. ’Tis not like Wilkie’s gone off to war or to foreign territories. He’s a laird now, rich beyond belief, and so in love he can barely see straight. We should be celebrating for him rather than mourning his absence. So, Stella, back to your wedding dress. I’ve asked Ailie to fashion something similar for me—and I’m helping with the details of the design—when the time comes, which might be never at this rate. The pickings are so slim! I mean, the Munros are charming enough, but—”

  “Christie,” Ailie said again.

  Christie leaned toward me with a conspiratorial grin, as if no one aside from me understood or could relate to her considerable challenges. “I mean, charming might be a slight exaggeration. Entertaining, certainly. But Ailie already has her eye on one of those—” To Ailie’s glare, Christie insisted, “I can tell Stella—she’s family now, and we have so little time to get to know her before she and Kade depart tomorrow morning—although we do plan on visiting in a month, isn’t it so, Kade?”

  Kade acknowledged her question with an offhand grunt, and Christie continued, undeterred. “Anyway, Stella, Knox would prefer that I choose someone further afield. ‘To expand our holdings and our influence,’” she mimicked in a deep voice to approximate her oldest brother’s.

  I couldn’t help smiling at her impression. Laird Mackenzie narrowed his eyes at her in mock anger, but Christie continued. “But those Macintoshes are heathens, of course, and the Buchanans—so provincial. I mean, I say that in the nicest possible way, and it’s true that several of them are quite handsome. I’ve never been to their keep, though, and I’ve heard it’s in some state of disrepair. You’ve been, haven’t you, Kade?”

  A quiet lurch of discomfort stuck in my throat at the reference. Kade had been to the Buchanan keep, aye, a visit that had been nervously—and thoroughly—discussed by my sisters. Claire’s cousin invited him to her private chambers. She allowed him...well, whatever he wanted. My unease only heightened when Kade’s glance fell on me, as though he was reading my thoughts, or recalling long-ago trysts in lurid detail. “Aye,” he said disinterestedly.

  “What’s it like?” Christie asked, taking a small sip of her ale.

  “Unimpressive,” Kade replied.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve heard,” said Christie. “And it hardly makes a Buchanan a desirable choice, I’m sorry to say. Not like a...well, a Stuart or a Munro—but of course those choices are no longer available to me, if I’m to follow my brother’s, laird of lairds, strict instructions—although Wilkie managed to skirt Knox’s imperial dictates, to be sure. If only I was so clever—and so lucky.” She said this affectionately, and Laird Mackenzie only rolled his eyes, not rising at all to the gentle impertinence. It was enviable, I thought—this family’s obvious ease with one another. The power of a laird over his own clan was absolute, yet she teased him as though they were children. If I’d ever attempted a playful remark like that, I would have felt the back of my father’s hand, and likely the lash of his whip, as well.

  I considered again the difficulties and sadnesses the forced separation of these siblings would introduce. My husband, for certain, was in as churlish a mood as I had yet seen him.

  But before we could tread further into the topics of either Buchanan’s keep or imperial dictates, there was a commotion outside the door of the laird’s den. Shouts and urgent voices rose above rapid footsteps. Whoever approached was frantic with their news. Laird Mackenzie and Kade rose from the table. The laird opened the door just as the guard was about to knock heavily, causing the agitated man to nearly fall into the room. He was followed by several other soldiers. “Laird Mackenzie!” the man began. “There is urgent news from your brother Wilkie.”

  “Wilkie?” the laird said. “What’s the news? Is he hurt? He’s only just departed half a day ago.”

  “His travel party has come upon a small battalion from the Campbell clan, Laird Campbell among them.”

  This was distressing news indeed. I knew, as we all did, that Laird Duncan Campbell was the son of King William’s sister, and he believed Ossian Lochs to be his own rightful inheritance. The king had no sons, only one illegitimate daughter: Roses. In most instances, illegitimate children were not rightful heirs. Yet the king had decreed that Roses would be heir of his Highlands throne, and had appointed Wilkie as laird. Campbell’s father had led the first rebellion less than two years ago, a battle in which Campbell’s father and the Mackenzies’ father had fought to the death. Duncan Campbell continued to rebel, to avenge his father’s death and to claim the land he felt entitled to, and had attempted to recruit ally clans to fight with him. His recent attempts had been unsuccessful. But we all knew he was bound to try again. This, above all, was the reason my father and Laird Mackenzie had been so urgent about securing the alliance between our clans: to ensure that we had the military advantage over Campbell’s army and any others he could convince to join him.

  “I knew we should have killed him when we had the chance,” Kade muttered.

  “Have they been threatened?” Laird Mackenzie asked the guard, with abrupt impatience.

  “Nay, Laird Mackenzie. The Campbells were in search of Laird Morrison, and were told that he’s in residence here at Kinloch, to return to Glenlochie on the morrow. They will arrange to speak with Laird Morrison—and his highest-ranking officers,” he added, looking at Kade, “when he returns home.”

  “What for?” Kade said curtly.

  “He wouldn’t say,” the guard replied. “Wilkie sent this news urgently. He thinks Campbell wants to discuss an alliance with the Morrison clan.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said, aghast. “My father would never ally with Campbell.”

  “Nay,” Laird Mackenzie said. “He’s as resolute about containing Campbell as I am. We’ve discussed this in some detail.”

  “’Tis obvious,” said Kade, his anger tinted by incredulity. “We’ve just publicly sealed the alliance between the Morrison and Mackenzie clans with our own marriage. He knows we would never join him. Why would he even propose such a meeting? It makes no sense. He must be up to something.”

  “Wilkie expressed the exact same suspicion,” the guard offered. “He urges you to send Mackenzie fortifications with the Morrison party when they depart in the morning. In case of trouble.”

  My heart leaped in my chest. In case of trouble? The thought of traversing the Highlands in small carriages while Campbell’s warrior troops prowled—possibly with the intention to attack—was unwelcome news indeed.

  “We’ll answer his question now,” growled Kade, furious. “No alliance—not now or ever. Take that message to Campbell and be done with it!”

  “Campbell and his men are no longer in the vicinity,” the messenger said. “They have taken their leave and plan to visit the Morrison keep in the coming days, once your party has returned. There is no way to deliver your message today, unless you’d like us to follow them to try to seek them out.”

  Laird Mackenzie turned to his brother. “Kade? Would you consult with Morrison? Or send a message of your own with these guards? Or leave it lie ’til Campbell dares show his face at Glenlochie? You have access, of course, to all the troops you need. I’ll alert the men now.”

  Kade considered the question. “Aye. We’ll take fifty men. And leave Campbell to his idiocy, wherever he may be. The very next time I see that menace, I’ll be more than tempted to spear him through the heart.”

  “Aye, ’tis what he deserves,” agreed Laird Mackenzie. The laird dismissed the messenger and took his leave to alert his contingent of soldiers to the
ir new assignment.

  Christie and Ailie bid us good-night.

  Kade stood so brusquely that he upset his goblet, which rolled off the table and fell to the floor, spraying liquid and smashing loudly. I shrank away from his quick, aggressive movement in an ingrained reaction. If I was close enough to a man to witness abruptness and anger, it was usually directed at me. My husband didn’t notice. Instead, he said, “Stella. Come with me.”

  I followed him out of the laird’s den and down the corridor with trepidation. Had he changed his mind about waiting? Was he so angered and upset that he’d decided to take out his frustrations on me?

  As soon as we entered his private chambers, he closed the door firmly. Taking care to get out of his way, I stood near the fire and watched him throw objects from the bookshelves into the remaining trunks, obviously in a state of irate agitation. I had learned that he would only take some of the things he would need. He planned for us to return for a visit to Kinloch in the spring, and this room would be left as it was, for our use whenever we needed it. I’d felt a small sense of relief at this news. I was glad, for my husband’s sake, that his haven would remain untouched. It seemed important to him.

  I thought I understood why my husband was upset and I could sympathize. His agitation, to be sure, rekindled my fear of his considerable size and his war-hardened strength. But I took heart from the few affectionate moments we had shared. I remembered his stunning admission. I savored his careful, inspiring touch. And I resolved to stay well out of his way until his ire cooled.

  Several gowns had been left in disarray by my sisters, draped carelessly over a table. “Why you have need of so many garments for such a short stay here is unfathomable to me,” Kade said irritably. He grabbed the dresses and walked toward me to fling them onto the bed. Instinctively, I cowered back from him, holding my arm up to shield my face. Terror rose in me in a reflexive surge as I flinched back from the onslaught. “Please don’t—” I cried, knowing only too well the amount of pain a warrior his size could inflict.

  But there was nothing. No impact. No pain.

  After a moment, I dared to lower my arm and look up at him.

  My husband was frozen in place, contemplating me with a mixture of puzzled alarm and grim understanding. He didn’t speak for several seconds. Turning away from me, he began to pace back and forth, as though attempting to control his own temper. This temper, though, was not directed at me, but at something he was considering. He leaned against a far wall, folding his arms across his chest, as though sensing in that moment that the small distance would comfort me.

  When he spoke again, his volume was lower, his anger contained. His measured thoughtfulness was tinged with an air of regret. “I saw the red mark on your face the other day,” he commented, and there was an icy gravity in his tone that sent a light shiver chasing up the back of my neck. “Is it your father who beats you? Or someone else?”

  I didn’t want to answer him. I didn’t want to infuriate him even more. And it didn’t seem prudent to stir animosity between the laird of our clan and his successor.

  “Answer me,” Kade said quietly, and I shrank back farther from him, afraid of the stark ferocity in his question. “Stella. I asked you a simple question. Does your father beat you?”

  “Aye,” I whispered, hoping only to calm him by giving him the information he demanded. “Or he orders his guards to do it.”

  His expression was measured and contemplative. There was a tenderness to him that was new, a quiet compassion that touched his features, softening his fierceness and causing a sudden pang of inexplicable longing that startled me. He was concerned for me. He understood that I had suffered and this realization was distressing to him. It was the first time I had ever been on the receiving end of real empathy from a man—especially one so vibrantly masculine as Kade Mackenzie—and the sensation of it felt wildly endearing. I had the unfamiliar urge to go to him, to touch him and to feel more of this extraordinary comfort he was offering me. “Is that why you cower away from every man, too afraid to speak or look anyone in the eye? Is that the reason?”

  Was that what I did? Now that he described it that way, I suppose one might have had something to do with the other. If I looked at the wrong man, I was punished. And it was always the wrong man.

  “I’d wager, too, that he beat you into agreeing to marry me, is that right?”

  I couldn’t reply, but my silence seemed confirmation enough.

  “How long has this been happening?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know. A long time.”

  It was several minutes before he spoke again. “Is that why you always look at me as though you’re expecting me to hurt you?” His voice had taken on an entirely different character, and one that reached into me, beyond my fear to some part of myself I barely recognized. Kade Mackenzie, whom I hardly knew beyond these past few days of turbulent intimacy, was genuinely affected by the information I had just given him. Our gazes met, and the connection was disconcertingly visceral. “Let me assure you of this, wife,” he said softly. “If any man threatens to lay a hand on you ever again, he will be exceedingly sorry for it. You’re my wife now and you have the protection of my body and my sword.”

  Here he was, this lethal warrior husband of mine, offering not threats, but protection, delivering the most reassuring words I had, quite possibly, ever heard in my life. He looked more dangerous than any man I had ever laid eyes on, even now, as the flickering light of the fire danced in a fluid motion along the gold-tinted strands of his dark hair that he wore loose, without the braids at his temples that most men wore. Yet it was clear by his manner, his expression and the emotion in his wolflike eyes that he cared about my confession. Deeply. And he would do anything within his power to stop it from happening again. This stirred something in me. It made me feel closer to him than I ever had before.

  “You don’t need to feel afraid of me, Stella,” he continued. “Or anyone else. I understand now why you would be. But you’re not to fear me. I’ll never hurt you. I swear this to you on my life.”

  Along with several degrees of comfort, his reassurances delivered something more. I felt charged with a rising urge to be closer to him, and to feel his protection in a more profound and absolute way. And the look of him touched a base compulsion deep inside me. The hard line of his jaw, his sensuous, arrogant mouth, the coarse stubble of his days-old beard. The unashamed, brazen virility of him was magnetic. I felt his layered beauty to the pit of my stomach.

  I took a step forward, holding his fingers very lightly in silent appreciation. I was touched that he would want to defend me in this way. I felt, in a wider sense, safer and more secure than perhaps I ever had. For the first time, his size didn’t intimidate me. I found that in this moment I liked the way he towered above me. My fingers weaved through his and he leaned to me, barely tilting his head as though he might kiss me. The scent of him, of leather and smoke and vitality, flooded my awareness. His dynamic presence closed around me, cocooning me and taking me back to a recent, shaded memory of a private, forbidden garden: the intoxicating scent, the sultry anticipation. In my mind I could feel the late-summer breeze. The festive sounds of the night-lit manor floated in the rose-scented air. And he was here with me, my phantom guardian, my shrouded guide. I closed my eyes, allowing the impulse to take hold. His arm wrapped around me and pulled me against the hard textures of his body. His hand stole to cup my jaw and he turned my face up to him. My eyes opened to his dark intensity, his stoic appeal. His lips so close and the light, intimate brush of his hair on my skin stoked the mellow glow in the low pit of my stomach, settling and blooming lower to where he had touched me and painted me with his silken caresses. I remembered the sensation, the feverish intimacy of it, and a sweet, innermost warmth began to unfurl.

  I reached to curl my hand around his neck, pulling him to me, bridging the divide. As though caught off guard by my fervent invitation, he took the offering with a low groan. His lips eased over mine
, parting me to his succulent invasion, flooding me with recognition and undiluted lust. My hands reached to wander his chest, searching for and finding the confirmation of his lean, solid shape. The belt and the knife. The taste of him and the feel of him: I knew him, from night after dream-soaked night. I knew who he was. My garden lover, who had stalked my vivid fantasies for weeks. Shocked and overwhelmed, I pulled away, gasping, holding fistfuls of his shirt.

  “’Tis you,” I whispered.

  “Of course it is,” he replied with a slow smile, understanding my meaning immediately. “Who else would it have been?”

  “But how?” My mind was muddled by the shocking realization. “Why didn’t I realize it before now? Why didn’t I see it?”

  “Because you didn’t want to. You were blinded by your fear. My own fault, possibly.”

  “’Tis you,” I repeated, utterly aghast.

  He seemed amused by my amazement. And there was an edge to his voice that was entirely new to me, infused with tenderness, and, if I wasn’t imagining it, vulnerability. “Is it really that difficult to believe?” He paused, stroking the wing of my eyebrow with the gentle touch of his thumb. “The first time I saw you, that very first time...I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I was imagining you.”

  I remembered the night. That first glance. The fascination, the fear.

  “I didn’t think such beauty existed,” he said. “Yet you looked as though you were being hunted from all sides. You made it clear enough that you wanted nothing to do with me. So I kept my distance as best I could.”

  I wondered if my husband was somewhat overcome by the events of recent days, as I was, and even more so: tomorrow he would leave his home to disengage from peaceful familiarity and embark on a new life that involved navigating the intricate politics of a new clan and fighting for position within it. He sounded more emotional than I had ever seen him, or had even imagined he could be. His husky voice was shadowed and raw. “And then when I saw you wander out of doors, I followed you. I found you in the dark and all alone. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to touch you. I had to taste you. And the way you responded to me...I thought I might go mad with desire for you, lass. It took everything I had to walk away from you.”