Читать книгу Highlander Taken - Juliette Miller - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

I FELT THE TINGLING, heated sensation of someone watching me.

Turning to see who it was, my heart skipped an uneasy beat as our eyes met across the crowded room. I quickly looked away, shaken by the unnerving connection. With some difficulty, I could name the emotions he stirred in me with that one, brief glance. Fascination, caution and, more than any other: fear.

He was standing at the entrance of the grand hallway of his family’s manor, flanked by his two brothers. Every pair of eyes at the well-attended gathering couldn’t help but stare. They were big, imposing men. With their brazen silhouettes dramatically backlit by torchlight, they commanded attention. Laird Knox Mackenzie, the largest of the three, was known for his well-trained army and his formidable leadership. Wilkie Mackenzie was said to be more lighthearted in nature, and possessed a near-legendary handsomeness that found many women gasping at his sudden appearance now.

But it was this third brother—Kade Mackenzie—who captured my attention most of all. He was equally as tall as his black-haired brothers, but slimmer, and somehow more lithe—almost catlike—in his movements. His long hair was a deep shade of dark brown that caught the gold light of the dancing fire he stood next to, giving him a subtle halo and the aura of a dangerous rogue angel.

All three men looked wholly in control of the scene, a confidence that might have stemmed from their skills with the sword as well as their ownership of some of the richest, most bountiful agricultural lands in all the Highlands. And while Laird Mackenzie and Wilkie gave a distinct impression of being at ease in their own skin, there was a wandering restlessness to Kade that not only entranced me, but also raised the tiny hairs on my arms in silent, spellbound alarm.

I took comfort from the close presence and incessant gossip of my four sisters and two cousins. “There he is,” said my sister Maisie, clutching my arm. “It’s Wilkie. Lord above, he’s magnificent. None of you are even to speak to him. Not until our marriage is secured beyond doubt. Even then, you’re to keep your distance. He’s mine.”

Maisie had claimed Wilkie for herself months ago, after he had once visited our manor. Whether he agreed to the match or not was yet to be determined.

“Aye, Maisie,” responded Clementine, my eldest sister. “We’re all aware of your designs on him. You speak of nothing else.”

“You can help yourselves to his brothers,” Maisie allowed.

“Who would dare approach them?” said Bonnie, my younger cousin, eyeing the Mackenzies with trepidation and something akin to awe. “They’re so intimidating. Laird Mackenzie is displeasingly gruff, I’ve heard it said. Look at the size of him. And Kade, well, his reputation speaks for itself. He’s as wild as they come.”

“Luckily for you, then,” Maisie replied, “there are many other men in attendance tonight.”

It was true. The Mackenzie clan was hosting, among others, the Macintoshes and Munros, whose highest-ranking family was pleasingly populated by a number of rowdy, good-looking bachelors. My sisters and cousins were pink-cheeked, primped and plumped into their best and most revealingly cut gowns, and more than ready for the occasion.

I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to return to our guest chambers and retire for the night. Or to flee, or do something completely unexpected of me. I willed myself not to let my thoughts return, once again, to Caleb, the only boy who had ever shown me kindness, lost to me now. It had been a fortnight since Caleb had asked for my hand in marriage, only to be promptly banished to Edinburgh by my father, Laird Morrison. Caleb’s status was low—not fit for the daughter of the laird himself—and his occupation as an apprentice blacksmith gave my father reason to have him trained by experts farther afield. Urgently. I had not even been allowed to bid him farewell.

The injustice of that hard-hearted act filled me with a sadness that was outlined by what felt remarkably like anger. It wasn’t fair that my father could pluck my beloved out of my life so callously, and with such finality. Gone, just like that. The suddenness of Caleb’s absence consumed me to such an extent that I had spent several days heartbroken and bedridden. I’d felt weakened and empty from all the tears I’d wept, as though my spirit had dripped away along with them. And then the heartbreak had turned, uprooting a long-buried resentment that was far less accepting. Our upbringing of abuse and tyranny had conditioned us to submit to the cruel whims of our father, but lately my usual obedience had become disrupted. I was tired of the beatings and the belittlement. A part of me wanted to rise up and break free like never before. I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my thoughts so I could let that seedling of empowerment grow, and lead me where it may.

“Evening, ladies,” said one of the Munro men, sidling up between me and Bonnie, standing so close that a long strand of his hair brushed against my cheek. “My name is Tadgh,” he said, tilting his head low in a bid to draw my eyes up, to his. “And you must be Stella.”

I wasn’t sure why he was singling me out, or even how he knew my name. It would have been rude to ignore him blatantly, but in my current state, the last thing I felt like doing was engaging one of these Munros, with their reputations as devout merry-makers and instigators of occasional debauchery. I wildly wished that one of my family members would speak to him instead.

Thankfully, one did. “A pleasure, Tadgh,” said Bonnie. “’Tis a fine affair, is it not? The manor is so nicely presented. The Mackenzies are hospitable, and do such a splendid job of decorating, don’t you agree?” Bonnie had a flirtatious nature, though she had already selected a husband. It wasn’t time for her to ask for permission yet; she knew, as her hopeful conquest did, that my father would not allow either of his nieces to be married until at least one of his daughters had made a suitable match.

“To be sure,” Tadgh answered blithely, as though he couldn’t care less about the decorating but had his mind on darker, more playful endeavors. And he was still watching me. “So, Stella, what do you think of the decorations? Do the finely woven tapestries please you?”

I didn’t have much experience with the conversations of men, so I couldn’t be entirely sure, but I had the feeling he was teasing me. A month ago, I would have been too timid to respond to Tadgh Munro; conversing with the wrong man would lead to punishment: this I knew only too well. Two weeks ago, I would have been too heartbroken. Tonight, however, my emotions were unruly. A newfound internal rebellion seemed to be gaining momentum.

In fact, they were beautiful tapestries. The sight of their rich colors and masterful workmanship made me realize I hadn’t noticed details of this type—of beauty and depth—for too long. I had a sudden unfamiliar urge to experience and appreciate more of life, and be allowed to do so, on my own terms. But I did not mention any of this to Tadgh. Instead, I said quietly, “Aye, they do.”

Two more Munro men joined us, armed with a tray of goblets and pitchers of ale, and were introduced as Tosh and Angus. “Ladies, may I pour you a goblet of ale?” Angus asked. “The Mackenzies make a fine drop.” He poured ale into a cup and handed it to me, which Tadgh intercepted, completing the exchange. I took the cup from Tadgh’s hand and almost dropped it when his fingers slid audaciously over mine. I pulled back quickly, spilling a drop of the ale. My father and his men would be watching me, as always. Tadgh, perhaps unaware of this, smiled at my reaction. Dressed as he was in his bright red Munro tartan, the fiery shades in his hair were all the more illuminated. Each of the Munros, in fact, glowed with their red-hued aura and their festive, unreserved manner. The Mackenzies, I couldn’t help contrasting, in their navy blues and forest-greens and with their dark night-lit hair, offered a much more formidable presence.

“The lovely Stella is a mite skittish,” Tadgh commented to his cousins, “although I’ve heard that under that exquisite, demure facade there’s a feisty wee rebel who steals carriages and takes to men with their own weapons. Captivating indeed.”

“Aye,” Tosh Munro responded, chuckling. “Hugh Morrison still wears the bandages. On his right hand, no less. His sword-carrying hand.” As his eyes roved my face and my body, he said, “Already she is famed for her beauty, and now she presents a dangerous challenge all the sweeter to any man who gets past her defenses.”

That the Munros were both entertained and intrigued by my run-in with my father’s men was disturbing enough. Much more worrisome, however, was that news of my actions had spread. My father would only be further enraged if my marriage prospects were tainted by a reputation for defiance. The Munros, however, didn’t seem at all deterred. Several of them stood close to me, and Tadgh in particular was eagerly attentive. They, as all the men at the gathering, wore their kilts and their ceremonial garb, including swords and knife belts. They were big men, warriors each one. I thought again of Caleb, who was gentle and kind in a way that these men could never be, and I missed him greatly in that moment.

It was true, after all. I had rebelled. Not more than an hour after Caleb’s banishment, I had run to the stables. I knew that my father’s men would follow me and return me home, disgraced. Even so, I asked one of the stable boys to prepare a small carriage for me. Before he had even secured the horses in their harnesses, my father and his men had found me.

Lash her again, my father had commanded his officers, so she’ll remember that my orders are not to be disobeyed. Again. Let her carry the bruises to remind her of her place. A task that the men had been all too willing to carry out, and with particular dedication. And I had fought back, as I had done before, but with more strategy this time. I’d grabbed one of the soldier’s knives and swiped it at him, cutting his hand. Even so, I’d been outnumbered and easy enough for them to constrain and punish.

The pain seemed to echo through me even now, with an ache both searing and deep. My outward signs of bruising had faded, but those inflicted on my heart and on my soul remained, as always. And my father’s words lingered.

If you carry on with such foolery, you’ll not be eligible to marry a nobleman. You’ll be forevermore seen as a ruined woman. Your lowly blacksmith has neither the resources nor the disposition to fight off my men. He has no means to support you. You’ll be doomed to a life of exile and poverty.

As much as the memory humiliated me, I knew my father’s warnings had been accurate enough. Caleb was as young as I was, inexperienced in the ways of fighting and weaponry. He was skilled at making swords, but not at using them. Still, I yearned for him. His mildness. His sensitivity. He was the only man I had ever met who did not make me feel utterly defenseless.

Tadgh, whose bold insistence only seemed to emphasize the divide between these lusty warriors and my gentle lost love, leaned closer, pushing a strand of my long hair back behind my shoulder to gain better access to my ear, then proceeded to whisper to me, “You’re far more beautiful than your sisters. Positively stunning, you are, lass.”

I moved away from him, staring at his face in mute shock. What an outrageously rude thing to say! With my sisters capable of overhearing. But Tadgh appeared amused by my expression and continued, getting closer despite my attempts to distance myself. “I’d heard you spoken of, but the descriptions hardly do you justice. The combined effects of your beauty and your feisty spirit have gained you some repute, you know. There are men who have come here tonight, some from great distances, for the sole purpose of laying their eyes on the mysterious Stella Morrison.”

I could feel that my cheeks were burning in embarrassment. Was it true? Had I been spoken about in this way?

I wished I could take my leave and return to the guest chambers. But my father would be furious, and the last thing I wanted to do was provoke more of his outrage. I knew I had little choice but to accept the consequences of my privileged position and do as I was told. This gathering, after all, had been planned with that specific goal in mind: securing at least one match for Clementine, me, Maisie, Ann or Agnes. My father was ailing now, and getting old. I had even heard it said that he fought off the beginnings of madness, which I believed to be true. His accusations were becoming laced with nonsensical edges. The fact that he had five daughters and two nieces, but no brothers, sons or nephews, did little to ease his state of mind. To make matters worse, his brother-in-law, my uncle, who had been groomed to take over the lairdship, had been killed in battle during the Campbell uprising over a year ago.

So it was up to one of us to marry well and secure a new laird for our moderately prosperous keep and our large but somewhat-flagging army. Marriage to a Mackenzie would secure an alliance that would unite our forces to theirs; this was crucial to my father, now more than ever since the Campbell rebellion was threatening to reignite.

Maisie was as feverish as my father about her potential match to Wilkie, which she hoped would be arranged officially this night. She felt fortunate that her conquest was not only noble, wealthy and talented, but also exceedingly good-looking. All three Mackenzie brothers were celebrated for their bravery, their swordsmanship, their military prowess and—it had to be said—their looks. Looks that would, in my father’s words, produce a handsome heir. So my father was anxious to secure the engagement. He had already begun arrangements with Laird Mackenzie regarding Maisie’s marriage to Wilkie.

The rest of us, too, were obliged to seek out men with credentials: lands, wealth and military alliances were to be at the top of the list of our considerations. Only with one or more of these attributes would the suitor in question gain my father’s approval. A Munro would please my father, I knew that. Preferably the one in line to accept the lairdship. If I recalled correctly, the name associated with that privilege was Magnus, not Tadgh. Either way, I couldn’t quite bring myself to care.

“Would you like to go for a stroll with me, Stella, to the drawing room?” Tadgh suggested. “I’ve heard the tapestries in there are even more spectacular.”

I knew he was mocking me. We were both well aware that there was not the tiniest likelihood that I would—or could, for the sake of my reputation—agree to a private stroll to an unattended drawing room with the likes of Tadgh Munro.

“Thank you, but I must decline,” I replied, perhaps overly shortly.

Bonnie attempted to smooth over my rudeness with a suitably charming comment. I scarcely heard what it was, or Tadgh’s response to it. I was allowing myself a small, delicious reprieve. I thought of Caleb and the stolen moments we’d shared in the blacksmith’s hut, where he worked. Once I’d watched him bang a still-molten sword with a hammer, honing its blade. Another day he’d been making chains, linked together while hot, forged solid and unbreakable once they were cooled. I’m to install these in the dungeons, he’d said, and I’d marveled at the thought. Such a task would require considerable bravery, and skill, I had thought at the time. Although Caleb and I hadn’t spent much time together, these brief memories were some of the sweetest I had ever known.

Such was the extent of my distraction that I didn’t notice, after a time, the accumulating crowd enveloping us. I turned to see Kade Mackenzie talking casually to Tadgh, just a few feet from where I stood. I was, I had to admit, riveted by the sight of him. Kade Mackenzie was even taller up close. His shoulders were squared and solid. The white tunic he wore emphasized the dark hues of his hair and his tawny, sun-bronzed skin. He looked every inch the savage warrior he was reputed to be. His eyes were a memorable shade of clear, light blue, a detail I couldn’t help but notice as he watched my finger absentmindedly twirl itself through a ringlet of my long hair. An expression of relaxed arrogance played across his bold features, softened only by the glimmer of subdued fascination that lurked behind it. It was true I was somewhat different-looking from my sisters. My hair was darker and I wore it longer. My eyes were a lighter hue than my sisters’, almost amber in color, with unusual flecks of yellow. I thought of Tadgh’s unsettling comment. And of a description my sisters liked to tease me with. Stella, you’ve the eyes of a frightened wildcat and the face of a fallen angel. My clan members often commented that I was the child who looked most like our mother, though I myself could not remember her. She died when I was three.

Against the backdrop of my lingering thoughts of Caleb, and even amid the jaunty camaraderie of the Munros, the sudden looming countenance of Kade Mackenzie was even more daunting and dramatic than it had been from afar. His presence seemed to close in around me and cause an inexplicable tightening of my throat, as if he were somehow stealing light and air. Sequestered and restricted to the company of my sisters and cousins for most of my life, I was entirely out of my element in the company of men. I knew this was why I preferred the nonthreatening gentleness of Caleb to the overt masculinity of men like Kade Mackenzie. His swarthy charisma leaped into the space all around him, and provided a sharp juxtaposition to the shadow of Caleb’s mild, soothing memory. There was nothing soothing or mild about Kade Mackenzie. Which was precisely why I wanted to put as much distance between us as I could.

But I was held in place by my younger sister Ann and my cousin Bonnie, who strung their arms through mine, as though sensing my thoughts and preempting any attempts I might make to leave.

“Ladies,” Angus Munro was saying, “may I top up your drinks? ’Tis a night for frivolity, after all.”

Ann, my sweetest of sisters, accepted her drink from Angus with a shy smile. Angus, all easy laughter and bright red-lit hair, was clearly enjoying himself as he served our ale. He topped up Kade’s cup, then replenished his own with a generous serving that threatened to overflow. Angus watched Ann take a tiny sip from her goblet, and, as much as I would have liked to retreat to the quiet of my chambers, I resolved then to stay and make sure she was well chaperoned. The combination of free-flowing ale, Angus’s overeager manner and his hawk-eyed attention of my vulnerable sister were enough to keep me in place, firmly at her side.

And all the while, as colorful conversation filled the large yet still-cozy hall, as people drifted and mingled, Kade Mackenzie’s cool predatory stare seemed to fix itself on me all too often, making me feel uneasy and restless. The ale did nothing to calm my nerves and seemed to stretch the minutes into long, hazy hours.

After drinking almost a full goblet of the sweet ale, in fact, I began to feel woozy and decided to avail myself of the inviting courtyard at the far end of the hall. Leaving Ann in Clementine’s care, I walked the long length of the hall, feeling heated and flushed, and reveling in the cool touch of the night air as soon as I reached it. I closed the door behind me to distance myself, just for a few minutes, from the noisy gathering.

No one had followed me. I had, for once, escaped the notice of my father’s guards. At this realization, I followed a lit pathway that led beckoningly into a tiny rose garden, enclosed by small trees and trellises. Intrigued and invigorated by my momentary freedom, I wandered just a few steps farther—and a few more—to find a secluded bench. Delighted with my find, I sat. I knew I shouldn’t be alone in a dark, isolated place such as this, but my newfound despair—and anger—had undermined the forced habits of my upbringing. Just for a few minutes, I wanted to pretend I was free to make my own choices, to fantasize about being treated with respect, or even love. And to appreciate the very simple pleasure of being alone.

The late-summer perfume of the roses filled the air with their heady scent, and I savored the peaceful moment. The past few weeks had been filled with turmoil and sadness, and I was grateful for the window of solace this little haven provided.

But then, without warning, a brisk, high gust of wind blew all the candles out.

The darkness was sudden and startling.

Flickering stars overhead were shadowed by bulky black clouds, and the moon was hidden. I had only the distant torchlight of the manor to guide me back. I stood, feeling unsteady not only from the lingering effects of the ale but also the stark isolation.

As my eyes adjusted infinitesimally to the darkness, I guessed at my return route along the meandering path back to the manor. I took a step, holding my hands out in front of me and feeling somewhat ridiculous. I laughed lightly at my predicament, wondering at my own impetuousness. The sound of my own laughter lingered with me briefly; it was a sound I hadn’t heard in some time. If I’d once been prone to bouts of adventurousness as a child, that tendency had been decisively eradicated from my nature by my father’s tyranny. If he could have seen me now, I had no doubt I’d be beaten yet again. So there was a small, defiant satisfaction to this seclusion.

But some subtle intuition brought my laughter to an abrupt end. A chill raised the hairs on the back of my neck in a sudden realization: someone was here with me. My senses instantly sharpened.

The fall of a heavy footstep.

The dark outline of a tall figure.

A man, certainly.

A very large one, at that.

My heart thumped edgily and I took a step in an unintentional direction, as though my legs meant to flee whether I wanted to or not. But the darkness, the uneven surface of the ground and my own layered imbalance caught me off guard and I almost stumbled but for the hand that reached out to steady me.

The ironlike bonds of that grasp were dizzying in the promise of strength that lurked underneath the gentle, guiding touch. And the scent of him, like wood and leather and smoke, so foreign to me. So very, entirely masculine.

“I’ll not hurt you,” he said softly, and in the tones of his voice I detected truth, a sense of honor, a genuine attempt to reassure. His words dampened my fear. I wasn’t at all sure why, but I believed them.

He steadied me completely, and I was surprised to find that his protective hold felt more inviting than threatening, especially in this total darkness. An anchor, sure and steady, in the tumultuous night.

I could acknowledge that a small part of me was enjoying this wild, illicit encounter. I was not afraid, reassured as I had been by his voice. And I was drawn, inexplicably, to that spiced, enticing scent of him.

Still holding my arm, he drew me closer, until I was pressed up against the hard warmth of his body. He was so dark, this phantom, so utterly unseeable. Yet the solidity of him fed me an encouraging comfort. It was a mercurial comfort, the kind that might only be found in a hidden, clandestine garden, void of light and sound, save the faraway beacon of an untouchable reality. We were frozen in an unexpected and timeless moment.

His other arm wrapped silently around me and I could feel the silky graze of his hair against my neck. I gasped at the intimacy of it, the caressing softness that stirred me in ways I had never known.

Then, under the dark cover of a moonless sky, the stranger’s parted lips touched mine, brushing slowly before settling in with gentle, deliberate pressure. My mind went blank and my knees gave out, but his stronghold was such that it mattered not. The soft exploration of his tongue sent channels of warmth into my body, lingering and curling, reaching deep. The taste of his kiss, so unexpected, so sweet, invited me to open to his supple demands, to take more of him, to let him in.

I had been kissed only once before by my shy and boyish Caleb: a very brief, barely-there touch. This was something else altogether. There was nothing shy or boyish about this kiss. This kiss pulled me in directions I, in a saner moment, would never have dared. Wild, relentless sensation spooled into me darkly as the stranger’s kiss deepened. His hand held my jaw with infinite care. A vague internal warning was swept away by the billowing, immediate urge my body had become. The effects of his tongue’s touch traveled lightly to the tips of my breasts and the softening secreted place between my legs, which piqued and moistened with an awakening want. I wanted his mouth on my skin, everywhere, and his hands to grip me and hold me down with all the promise of their brutal-gentle strength. I wanted to lose myself in this stranger completely, to drink him in, such was the intoxication of him.

From somewhere outside our tumbling, succulent connection, a voice called.

My name. And again.

It was Ann’s voice, and it was enough to shock me back into a shadowed awareness.

Slowly, reluctantly, the stranger pulled back.

Into this small distance between us, my regrets spilled. Regrets, I was amazed to realize, that were not about what I had done with this phantom lover, but what I had not done. The potency of him had wholly captivated me, and even now I wanted more of him. I wanted him to kiss me again, to soothe and stoke the burning need he had lit within me.

Here, under an overcast night and still in the dark stranger’s enveloping embrace, I had the disconcerting feeling that I had changed. That this place and this kiss would forever haunt me. That nothing would ever satisfy me until I could feel an approximation of this, of him. Again, and always, I would seek the beauty of this sudden and forbidden intimacy.

If this was what rebellion felt like, then I wanted more of it.

The distant calls continued.

My conscious mind insisted I disengage from him, and make a hasty retreat toward the manor. Yet I couldn’t move. Who was he? Would I ever find him again, to be touched and tasted and held close to his elusive, sheltering heat?

The stranger moved, and spoke. The roughened notes of his soft, deep voice sent quickening warmth to my secret places, which had become swollen with a sweet ache that caused me to gasp lightly. I would have done anything that voice asked me to do. Anything.

“Hold on to me,” he said. “Let me take you.”

For a tiny moment, a wicked excitement lurked in the cravings of my body that were new to me, but then I realized what he meant: he would take me back to the manor.

His muscled arm was looped around me, encompassing me in his male-spiced scent. I grasped onto his clothing, and further, reaching my arms around his waist. I could feel the hardness and warmth of his body even through the layers of fabric, and I imagined what his skin might feel like under my fingertips. My fingers curled around the leather of his belt, and I could feel the bone handle of a large knife strung to it.

He began to lead me, supporting my weight easily. He was surefooted, even in the darkness, and he navigated our path without difficulty. And then he stopped. We were still some distance from the lit outskirts of the courtyard, but the path was faintly visible now, straight and smooth. He withdrew his embrace carefully, as though to ensure that I wouldn’t topple over without his support. And the air felt cool and stark at the sudden removal of his body against mine.

He stood against the darkness and I could see no more of him than I had until now, just his solid and very black silhouette. He leaned his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “I will taste more of you, Stella. I have not had nearly enough. I want you as my own.”

And then he was gone.