Hannah and the Highlander Page 2

  “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.

  The thought should have concerned her, frightened her, stopped her wayward thoughts. It did not. He was—

  Her elation deflated in an instant, replaced by a howling wash of chagrin, when he released her and stepped away. In his absence, a cold wind rushed in. His features went taut, a muscle bunched in his cheek, and he gave a tiny shake of his head.

  Hannah was no fool. She recognized rejection when she saw it. Something bitter tickled the back of her throat. Heat raked her. Mortification raged.

  Damn and blast.

  He had saved her from an overzealous suitor, as any chivalrous man would. He had touched her cheek in sympathy for her injury. He had done or said nothing to encourage her to crawl up his body as she had.

  She should have known. A man like this would never be interested in a mousy, bookish woman with too-large eyes and a crooked mouth. A man like this would want a bold, beautiful warrior princess like Susana. They all did.

  No doubt women clamored for his kisses. No doubt he had to fight them off with a stick. No doubt her kiss had been naught but an annoyance from yet another dewy-eyed lass.

  She shouldn’t have kissed him—though she couldn’t regret that she had.

  “I’m—” No. She would not apologize. She cleared her throat and waved back at the spot where Niall had so nearly ravaged her. “Um. Thank you. I dinna realize he had followed me until it was too late.”

  He nodded.

  Silence sizzled between them. “I’m Hannah Dounreay.” She thrust out a hand.

  He stared at it.

  “And you are…?”

  She waited for his response on bated breath, aching
to know his name. Raw embarrassment still scorched her and discontent raged within her breast at the reminder that she could never attract a man like this. It would help, a little, knowing his name. At least she would know what to call him when she thought of him in the years to come. And she would.

  His Adam’s apple made the long slide up and down his throat. His lips parted. Hannah stared at them, trying very hard not to think about leaping on him and kissing him again. It was difficult. Something about his scent, his aura, his presence, tugged at her soul. Filled her with an unfamiliar hunger.

  But he didn’t give her his name; he wouldn’t even grant her that tiny sliver. Without a word he bowed to her, spun on his heel, and strode away.

  Hannah gaped at his receding form, raging emotions tumbling through her in a maelstrom. Few were pleasant. Had that been what it had seemed? A complete and utter cut direct?

  How rude.

  As embarrassing and dreadful and delightful as this entire debacle had been, for some reason outrage trumped all other feelings. Fury railed her. Though he was physically perfect, tempting, and … tasty, she never wanted to set eyes on him ever again.

  Whoever he was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alexander Lochlannach, Laird and Baron of Dunnet, clenched his fists as he made his way back to his tent. Damn, but the touch of her lips, the dab of her tongue, had been sublime.

  Hannah. Her name was Hannah.

  At the thought of her, something ephemeral and enticing bubbled in his breast.

  He couldn’t help but notice her as he’d prepared for the caber toss, didn’t miss the fact that she watched him with a gleaming interest. Indeed, he’d felt her gaze like a raging firestorm. A spear of lust.

  His first glimpse of her had stunned him. She’d been laughing, with her head thrown back and her eyes alight, her hair like a river of black silk streaming down her back. She was a tiny thing with lush curves and alabaster skin. Her large brown eyes made her appear vulnerable, like a frightened fawn, but he knew better. There was strength in her, a spine of steel. The set of her chin left no room for wondering about that.

  Aye, he’d wanted her on sight. He’d been compelled to follow her when she’d sauntered away from the festival. He’d been enraged to find her on the ground, pinned by that worm Niall Leveson-Gower.

  Niall was lucky he still had his man parts. The only thing that had stayed Alexander’s hand was the fact that maiming the marquess’ son would probably have started an all-out war. Alexander’s relationship with Stafford was rocky at best, and it was unwise to provoke a man who had the ear of the Prince Regent.

  He’d considered it, though. For Hannah.

  When she’d told him her name, he’d nearly laughed out loud. Some inappropriate amusement twined with bone-deep relief. She was the daughter his friend Magnus Dounreay, Laird of Reay, had been urging him to offer for. He could kick himself for not taking Magnus up on his invitation to visit Ciaran Reay and meet her.

  Why had he resisted?

  Aside from her gorgeous face, her mouthwatering form, she came fist in glove with a swath of prosperous lands. Lands any man would be honored to claim as his own.

  Ah well. He knew why he’d resisted. Any lass with eyes in her head would espy his ruined face and run for the hills.

  But she hadn’t run for the hills. She’d kissed him. Kissed him.

  And damn. He should have kissed her back.

  Hell. He should have given her his name.

  But when he’d stared into her mesmerizing amber eyes, his mind had seized, his throat had locked, and a familiar panic had scorched him.

  He hated his curse. He always had, but never more than now.

  Alexander didn’t have a pretty face or a silver tongue like his brother, Andrew. And unlike other men, Alexander’s wounds were not easily hidden. They taunted him daily. Every time he glanced at the glass. Every time he opened his mouth.

  He tried, very hard, not to do either with any regularity.

  His brother had no trouble whatsoever issuing seductive whispers to entrancing ladies. No trouble at all offering something as simple as a name. And though Alexander had worked hard to overcome his challenges, every once in a while they rose up to best him. At those times, each word, each syllable, was a torment. But he fought, fought like hell, to make sure, when he spoke, his words were bold and clear.

  He resolved, the next time he saw her, he would be more prepared.

  Hannah.

  Aye, he’d been captivated by her at first glance, and intrigued when she told him her name and he realized the breadth of her dowry. But it hadn’t been until their lips had brushed that he’d known—known—she was his. It had hit him like a fist to the gut.

  Now that he’d held her, tasted her, he wanted her. With an unruly passion.

  It was a damn shame he hadn’t kissed her back. He could have shown her with his actions that which he found so difficult to say.

  But he would have her. Have her he would.

  His determination swelled and he changed direction, striding through the crowd, searching for Magnus. Now that Alexander had made up his mind, there was no reason to delay. Aside from which, he knew Hannah had many suitors. He would not lose her to one of them. Not now.

  His steps stalled as a booming voice called his name. He fought back a grimace. Blast. Olrig. The last person he wanted to see right now. Ever, really. Olrig was the laird of the land to the east of Dunnetshire and through the years they’d had more conflicts than Alexander could remember—mostly because Olrig was an ass, determined to fill his coffers at all costs. He saw reeving as a game, a right of Highland lairds, and didn’t flinch at sending men over the border to steal cattle, raid crofts, and cause mayhem.

  Aside from that, Olrig reminded him of someone he had detested. Alexander tried not to let the resemblance prejudice him, but it was difficult when Olrig insisted on acting like Dermid as well.

  He considered pretending not to hear, walking faster in the opposite direction, but if he knew Olrig, and he did, the man would hound him to the ends of the earth if he wanted something. Best get this over with. With a sigh Alexander turned and watched as Olrig hastened toward him.

  It was slightly amusing watching Olrig hasten. He was hardly a sprightly man. Indeed, his face was red and his breath hard as he approached. Whatever he wanted to discuss must be important for him to bestir himself so.

  Alexander didn’t know the reedy man at Olrig’s side, but there were many here he’d not met.

  “Ah. Dunnet. There you are,” Olrig huffed.

  Alexander fixed him with a dark look.

  Olrig did a credible job of hiding his flinch and forced a smile. Alexander could tell it was forced because it didn’t meet his eyes. “Dunnet, have you met Scrabster?” Olrig waved to the bony man.

  Ah. This was Scrabster, Olrig’s neighbor to the west. Scrabster’s lands bordered Reay. Though they had never met, Alexander had heard of him. None of the stories had been flattering, though they were in keeping with his constantly shifting beady eyes. Scrabster gave a brief bow. “A great pleasure to finally meet the legendary Wolf of Dunnet,” he wheezed.

  Alexander narrowed his eyes. He disliked the moniker.

  Scrabster paled and took a step away and Olrig laughed. He clapped the slender man on his back with a force that launched him forward. “He looks ferocious, but I assure you, he is quite tame.”

  Where Olrig had reached that conclusion was a mystery. “Aye,” Alexander said through his teeth. “Quite tame. Until someone raids my mill.”

  Olrig laughed again, but there was a thread of alarm in the sound. “Och, Dunnet. That was all in good fun.”

  “It willna be fun when winter comes and there is not enough grain in the stores to feed my people.”

  “I have people too,” the bastard said with a shrug.

  Alexander stifled a growl. Or perhaps not. “Stay off my land, Olrig,” he said. “And tell your minions I will gut the next man who crosses our borde
rs with mischief in mind.”

  “Well, there’s nae reason to be huffy,” Olrig said. Huffily.

  For some reason Alexander’s fist wanted, rather mightily, to plant itself into a bulbous nose. He reminded himself of his vow to control his temper; he didn’t want to be the kind of man who lost it with frequency. Though with certain people controlling it was more of a challenge. It took some effort, but he managed to uncurl his fingers.

  “Surely we can look past these petty squabbles,” Scrabster said in a lofty tone, and Alexander’s glare rounded on him. His features arranged themselves into something he probably thought was an encouraging smile. It dimmed when he caught Alexander’s expression. “Ahem. I mean, I, we … We wanted to talk to you, Dunnet.”

  Ah, bluidy fooking hell. Impatience simmered. He had no time for this. He was eager to find Magnus and make his offer at once. “Aye?”

  “Before the meeting,” Scrabster added.

  Alexander arched a brow. “About what?”

  Perhaps his irritation was plain on his face or perhaps it was the ferocity of his expression, but the men exchanged pained glances and eased back. Then Olrig collected his courage, sucked in a breath, and gusted, “It has to do with Stafford.”

  Alexander narrowed his eyes. Really? Had Niall run to Daddy already? The marquess was one of the most powerful men in the region and something of a bully, but Alexander didn’t care if he ran afoul of him. What his son had tried to do was heinous and—

  “He has a proposal ye will want to hear,” Scrabster whispered.

  Now this was surprising. Although any proposal from Stafford would, no doubt, be abhorrent. The rumors and reports coming from Sutherland, where he had his seat, were sickening. Stafford was in the process of clearing his land, though they called it Improvements—evicting tenants and importing sheep to make a profit. The trouble was, the tenants had nowhere else to go and those who resisted were beaten, sent to the colonies, or killed outright. The practice had created bands of roving thieves who ravaged the Highlands, and hordes of homeless refugees. It unraveled the fabric of the clan system that made Scotland what it was.