Mary Anne Graham

A FAERIE FATED

FOREVER

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Copyright © 2009 by Mary Anne Graham

CHAPTER ONE

A gaggle of Maclee warriors lurched haphazardly behind Nial, their mostly sober laird. The annual fair on the Isle of Skye hadn't spawned enough excitement for this group so they headed for a secluded area to brew their own - thanks to the antics of “Heather the Hag.”

The girl followed their ambling path, ducking and hiding hither and yon. Presently she crouched behind a pair of barrels a few feet away. The cap of her granny bonnet poked over the flat top like a wild turkey's tail feathers. Every so often, she popped up and peeked at Nial, wearing the same expression as a priest at the pearly gates.

“Shit,” said the object of all the attention, “can’t she just go away and join some friends or something? Maybe she could find a lad to show her what to do with all that emotion.”

“Join some friends? What friends?” chortled Braden.

“She has friends,” said the laird, almost in defense of the lass. “I’ve seen them.”

“Likely of the sort who want to fare well in comparison. The ugliest duckling would seem a swan standing next to her,” Braden replied.

“She’s a duck all right,” Calum agreed. “The oddest duck of them all.” He took a long swig of his brew before he said, “Heather is a duck destined to quack alone.”

Nial snapped, “What the hell does that mean?”

Fletcher swayed. “Would you quack with her? If you share her longing, audience or no, I bet she’ll quack with you right now.”

“She’s not,” the Maclee gritted between clenched teeth, “exactly my type.”

“Your type?” Fletcher asked. “Ahh, she’s not the cream of the crop, the fairest of the fair. Nothing less will do for you, right?”

“Now, Fletch,” Calum said, grinning, “we all know the curse.”

“Remind us - oh great one,” the other man encouraged.

“Recite the curse, recite the curse!” Chanted Braden and a barely conscious Grant in unison.

“Stop it,” hissed Maclee, although he knew it was futile to try to halt the script. It varied very little and always got a rise out of him. This time, however, Heather MacIver lurked nearby, surely quivering where she crouched. Her presence and the potent alcohol consumed in vast quantities by his clansmen shed new light on the old drama, making him distinctly uneasy.

Casting a pointed smile at his laird, Calum darted ahead and leapt atop the barrel. Outwardly, he appeared oblivious to the crouching lass who shut her lashes to shield her odd eyes, shrank inside her sack du jour, shook from head to toe, and prayed for escape.

The ringmaster cleared his throat, took a heady swallow of his whiskey and spoke in the tone of a chieftain about to lead his clan into battle. “My friends, Nial, Laird of the Clan Maclee, labors under a curse pronounced long ago by the King of the Faeries.”

“Recite the curse, recite the curse!” chanted the others as Nial shrugged and crossed his arms. He’d have walked away and left the drunks to their play, if not for that dratted unsettled feeling that grew worse instead of better. If he left, he would abandon the lass. Some would say the little spy deserved what she got. He'd like to say that too, but for a reason he couldn’t explain, he would not leave her to the taunts and games of his drunken friends.

“Recite the curse, you say?” Calum drew out the moment when the eyes of all fell upon him.

After long moments, when Laird Maclee's discomfort grew obvious even to his sotted companions, Calum spoke. “Lads, Ian Maclee – Nial’s Great Grandfather many times removed, fell in love with the daughter of the Faerie King who disapproved of the liaison but gave in to his daughter’s tearful pleas. He allowed the couple a handfast marriage. After the year and a day passed, the lass had to return to the land of faerie. We know what those two were up to, because a bairn appeared nine months later.”

“We all know the tale,” Nial grumbled. “Why repeat it again?”

Calum ignored the protest. “On the appointed day, awash in tears at leaving her mate and newborn babe, the princess forlornly left with the escort, a band of faerie knights. Her loving spouse raised nary a protest, much less a sword. Some months later, a loud party at the keep lured away the pair of nurses. Their abandoned charge, the forsaken bairn, wailed loudly. Wee Ian's cries alerted the faerie princess who secretly returned to comfort her child. The princess swaddled Ian in a cloth and crooned a lullaby. The tune called the swaddling cloth a faerie flag and said 'twas a charm to protect the clan when its laird couldn't do his job.”

“Damn you, shut up!” Maclee insisted.

“How did Ian repay such bounty? He married a lass for the coin she brought and royally riled the Faerie King who appeared at the reception to pronounce this curse: From this day forward, every laird of the Clan Maclee shall be more handsome and more irresistible to the lasses than the one before him. Ladies shall chase him and try to trap him, but he must not fall prey to their wiles, for he shall fall in love only once. His faerie fated love shall set the claws of passion to his manhood, the need to possess to his soul, and the magic of love to his heart. If he marries another he will live a wretched existence beset by unsatisfied desire for the love he cannot have and cannot forget for all of his mortal days.”

Calum turned and gestured. “So tell us, Laird Maclee, have you found your faerie fated love? Do you still face that wretched existence if you are caught by another?”

“This drama grows old,” Nial replied. “Surely we would all enjoy a dram of whiskey with a willing lass on our laps. Why do we not adjourn?”

For a single moment, before he shielded it, an evil sparkle lit Calum’s gaze. “Leave? Now? When we have a wench here, amongst us? And not just any wench, 'tis Heather, the only child of the Laird of the Clan MacIver. She is single and a most suitable mate for our unwed friend. The answer to the question he avoided must be no. He has not yet found his faerie fated love. Has he considered this lass?”

Calum jumped down and caught the girl as she turned to flee. He lifted her struggling form and hauled her towards Nial. “For a girl who follows my friend around with her heart in her eyes, you seem remarkably unwilling to have your all-too-obvious dreams come true.”

Calum stopped a short step away from his laird as he continued to lecture the quivering girl. "You watch and yearn but you've never dared to venture within touching distance. It all starts with a touch, lass. Why would you run from him now?"

Heather gathered her nerve to speak. Terror threaded her voice, but the adoration in her demeanor belied her words. “Don’t be silly. I but paused for a private moment here where it wasn’t crowded and I ah...,” she stuttered, casting wild looks around before pausing when Grant staggered, tripped over his own feet, and landed on his bum. “I became alarmed when I heard you approach. Yes, alarmed. I could tell you'd all been drinking and are clearly intoxicated.”

Nial's nature didn't allow even a mild accusation to pass unchallenged. With a quirk of his brow he inquired, “Indeed?”

“All but you,” she whispered.

He smiled at her admission. A strange current passed between them. Nial refused to acknowledge it, much less examine it.

Abruptly, Calum unloaded Heather from his grasp and tossed her into the laird's arms. Nial caught her, still charged with that odd spark. His staff twitched at the press of her generous breasts and he widened his stance. Nial put her down by sliding her against his body. As it passed, her nether regions snagged his stiffening member and he moved his hand to the lowest curve of her back. He thrust against her once and drew back to do it again when a howl of laughter brought him to his senses. Aroused by Heather the Hag? Surely not.

Appearing amused by his friend’s most visible dilemma, Calum said, “Laird, I believe your search has overlooked Miss MacIver altogether. I believe she thinks that she knows the answer to your quest. Tell me, could she be your faerie fated love?”

Heather spoke no denial of Calum’s words.

Nial stepped forward, telling himself he did it to cloak her trembling form with his protection. He had himself half convinced of the purity of his motives until a most impure twitch convinced him otherwise. If his one-eyed wonder worm had a mouth it would howl with laughter at the notion that returning to nestle against the curve of her ass had anything to do with nobility.

Cradling Heather even closer, Nial felt the instant when his solid protection penetrated her fear. He felt more than that, wanted to penetrate more than that, and he was too randy a bastard not to be aware of the biological truth. His staff stretched and warmed, straining the fabric of his pants, as he stood behind her, pressing and releasing ever so subtly. His need for the homely little wren throbbed with a ferocity that left him light-headed.

Into the charged silence, a new voice fell. “Indeed, Nial. It appears this would be an excellent time for you to consider my daughter as a bride.” Laird MacIver, Heather’s father, pushed aside jeering onlookers to clear a path for his lady wife.

“In view of the circumstances,” Lady Bonnie said, “my husband is correct.”

The presence of two Maclee elders at the MacIvers' side told Nial he was cornered. The elders grinned at the sight likely to prompt the union for which they'd lobbied. A wedding between the heirs to these clans would promise a wealthy, secure future for all of Skye.

“What say you, Nial?” Laird MacIver asked.

“Well, at present," Nial began, wishing he knew how to finish the sentence.

Heather tried to step away, but he held her tight with arms that perversely slid higher, resting just below the generous curve of her breasts. His hands clenched at her sides as his palms itched with the need to cradle the weight burning his forearms. It took the full measure of his control to prevent himself from fondling her under the eyes of her parents and his clan elders who frothed with eagerness to spring the trap he could never step into. He shook his head to try to clear away the layers of contradictions.

Heather faced her father with a boldness she didn't feel. “Nial hasn’t done anything.”

“There is much he hasn’t done,” Laird MacIver replied, raising a brow as the young laird resisted his effort to retrieve his daughter.

The MacIver cleared his throat and Nial ordered himself to let go immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes and thrust- not once but twice- before he could force himself to let his arms fall away.

“Heather, go with your mother,” Carrick MacIver instructed. After a glance behind her, Heather walked through the crowd that jeered no longer. Carrick waited until the ladies left before turning back to the younger laird. Nial held himself stiffly to counter his insane urge to trail after Heather the Hag. What had possessed him?

“Laird Maclee?” MacIver demanded.

Nial watched Heather's swaying hips until the crowd swallowed her, wishing all the while that he understood why it felt so wrong to watch her walk away. It was a long moment before Nial recalled the MacIver's question. “I won’t be forced,” he said. “As Heather said, I didn’t do anything.”

“There is much you didn’t do, Laird Maclee.” The MacIver's eyes made a slow journey downward. Nial stood haughtily, never betraying his internal struggle to keep his hands by his sides instead of allowing them to cover his arousal like an untried youth. Carrick’s eyes reached the betraying bulge and lingered. Nial felt every eye in the crowd fix on that portion of his anatomy. “There is also much you did,” the MacIver said after several long moments.

Nial knew that honor directed him towards his father’s fate, wed to a woman who hated him for his inability to hide his love and longing for another. He saw the corner and his impulse to push back flashed in his eyes, before he forced himself to respond as the laird who didn’t want civil war on his beloved island. “I can make no promises. However, I will invite your family for a visit to Kilcuillin so that Heather and I can become acquainted. More than that, I will not accept.”

MacIver nodded. “I await the invitation.” The other laird turned and left with the chattering Maclee elders following on his heels.

Nial turned his back on the crowd and spotted a young barmaid, who winked at him. He strode forward, took her hand, and headed for the wooded area a short distance away. The crowd watched their exit, and their laughter swelled as Nial pulled the wench along.

CHAPTER TWO

Real trouble loomed. Her racing steps halted as she heard horses pawing the sod. She bit her lower lip, clenched a handful of the billowing fabric at the side of her dress and peeked through the shrubbery to see her father and his warriors mounted and girded. She knew her predicament would be sizable when Da gave the clan battle cry followed by the order to “Ride, men. Away, to retrieve my Heather and end the lives of the wretched fools who dared lay hands on a MacIver.”

She could delay no longer and ran from her hiding place in the trees, waving her arms wildly. Her Da reined in his horse. Several of the men snickered and exchanged knowing smiles.

Carrick MacIver dismounted at a run, throwing off battle gear with each step.

“Lass, ye’re alive! Thanks be to God. Did you get away? Did you fool the villains and sneak off? Who took you?” He gave her no time to answer before crushing her in a mighty hug. Then Bonnie came running from the house, ashen and still in tears.

“Baby! Where have you been? Were you taken, then? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” She trembled and the laird spread one arm around her while the other cradled his daughter.

“Come, ladies. We shall return to the castle so Heather may name the villains. Now that she is safe, we can strategize and plan our attack.” He stopped to disperse the men and Heather slipped away from the comfort she hadn't earned. Da shrugged and kept an arm around her mother's waist as they headed towards the castle. Heather lagged behind, gnawing her lower lip.

Could she invent some villains? She darted a glance at her father’s ruddy expression and decided against such a scheme. He would retaliate, and she couldn’t have innocent blood on her hands. All too soon, she was ensconced in the house, being pressed to name the dastardly and soon to be dead clan who dared to touch Carrick’s only child.

“I wasn’t taken,” she mumbled.

“What’s that? I couldn’t have heard you correctly,” her father demanded. “Speak plainly lass and name those who will die!”

By now, Bonnie had spotted the small satchel Heather tried to kick under the chair. She seared Heather with her “how dare you” glare as she bent to retrieve the evidence. She waved it at arm's length over her head before she tossed it in Carrick's lap.

“The lass wasn’t taken. She’s been out alone tending some crofter’s bairn, see if she hasn’t.” Bonnie’s temper behaved like a volcano - it rumbled before it erupted. She paced, she shouted to herself and the world generally; she threw her arms about – warning all that misery would soon spew like lava.

Carrick stared at the black bag like it contained something more deadly than herbs and bandages before he stood and tossed it into Heather's lap.

She nearly giggled, thinking that one of her younger cousins would believe they were playing catch. Heather stifled the impulse, which was a good thing, because her father said her name. Her whole name.

“Heather Ceana MacIver, explain yourself. NOW,” Carrick said, in increasing volume, so that the last word was a roar. Heather knew she was about to get it. Really get it. Unless she could distract her father she'd not see the outside of her room for a month.

“The MacGregor’s five-year-old boy, little Bran came down with croup and a chest infection. You know him, Da. He’s the one whose hair you always ruffle and say he reminds you of Uncle Conall. The poor thing was dreadfully ill. I was up all night treating him with myrrh tea and linseed. Not until this morn did the wee munchkin cease his coughing fits and fall into a sound sleep.” Heather busied herself pouring her Da a cup of Scots Whiskey and handed it to him, as she said, “The lad might have died without me.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “For the love of the almighty, lass, what is one crofter bairn more or less? Anyway, the child wouldn’t have died, they would have fetched old Latharna and she’d have cured the lad in time to get some rest!”

Reminded of the village healer, Da’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth but closed it again when his squire came running in with a note. As Carrick read the message, Bonnie took a hard look at her daughter, rolled her eyes again, and walked to Heather’s side.

“What will it take for you to dress as befits your station? You look like a kitchen maid or a washerwoman. The dress would fit four of you and,” she untied the girl’s bonnet, snatching it away as Heather danced after it. “I can’t even see your eyes under this hideous thing!”

What could she say that her mother hadn't heard a thousand times before? Heather glanced in the mirror and looked away fast because she couldn't bear to face her reflection. The image proclaimed that her mother described her all too well. What did it matter that she wore a red Granny bonnet? The thing hid her loathsome hair didn't it? Yes, her dress would fit several women her size, but what of it? It was one of the high-necked, long sleeved, garments that she favored for comfort – and to hide her sow-like breasts. Mother was right as usual. Heather knew she resembled a drab or a scald, and an unkempt one at that.

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you so many times that while you won’t ever be a traditional beauty, you could be lovely and exotic. You need only make a little effort," Bonnie said, her eyes snapping from tenderness to anger as she continued. "I know your late grandmother convinced you that your hair is odd. The old bat, err, I mean dear," she corrected at a sharp look from Carrick, "even said that your golden eyes were cursed or some such nonsense."

Bonnie warmed to her subject, grabbing Heather and shaking her shoulders. "Wake up dear! She was bloody well jealous when she said you looked like a stick trying to support a pair of boulders. Granny's chest was as flat as her intellect." She cast a look at her husband that dared him to disagree. He didn't. "The old girl preached her favorite homilies until I grew heartily sick of them. I can still see her little beady eyes following me while her crabby voice says pretty is as pretty does. My personal favorite was her zinger -a man shallow enough to be attracted by the wrapping, will never appreciate the contents. How did she think I attracted Carrick? With my even temper?"

Heather thought longingly of her dear departed Granny, who'd taught her everything she knew of herbs and of life. Heather modeled herself after Granny's mode of dress. Miraculously, the attire Granny had worn since her days in the American colonies helped to hide the long list of physical flaws Heather hadn't realized she was afflicted with until Granny MacIver pointed them out. Heather bit back the vicious insult she wanted to hurl at her empty headed mother. Only her Granny had loved her enough to tell her the truth and to accept her despite her flaws. Mother just criticized and crafted impossible dreams. Why did her mother show her stars she could never reach? She tried to tune out the words but her mother's voice took on the high pitched whine that made Heather long to stuff her fingers in her ears.

“Baby, don’t you want to marry? Someday you'll want children. You're marvelous with the little ones. I've told you time and again that it is always the wrapping that attracts men. They're like fish—forever chasing the pretty lure.”

Heather crossed her arms and looked away but she looked back fast enough when Bonnie craftily suggested, “Why, take Laird Maclee. A man like him will never bother to check out the contents if he isn’t interested in the wrapping.”

“You’re wrong about Nial. He’s not shallow! He’s different!” Heather retorted, loudly. Anything resembling an insult to the great Maclee roused the girl as nothing else could.

By now, Bonnie shouted too. “I’m not calling him shallow. I’m just calling him male.”

In much better spirits, Carrick bounded between the two women, puffing his cheeks in and out. Then he raised both brows, lowered his head, and aimed for Bonnie, who ran around the room, laughing.

Finally, he caught her, and as he bobbed up for her earring, she squealed, “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m a fish, love. I’m chasing the pretty lure.” His ridiculous imitation had them all laughing. For the moment, issues of wandering off to tend sick tenants and Heather’s attire were forgotten. He called for wine. When it arrived Carrick raised his glass, “The invitation Nial promised has come. We have been invited to Kilcuillin for a house party to celebrate his birthday. It will be a good time for the young ones to get to know each other. I know my lass, and the Maclee is too smart a fellow to let such a lady get by him. He shall not know what hit him. To Heather and Nial, Gle Mhath (very good)!!”

Heather grinned and raised her glass. She had loved Nial for years and his protective embrace at the fair only increased her devotion. She believed Nial was as beautiful inside as he was outside and cited his generosity with his clan as proof. Everyone knew that his kindness to widows was prolonged – he provided meat for their table, wood for the winter and played substitute father for the children. (Heather didn’t know that the generosity to the women yielded other benefits for Nial with widows who weren’t virgins and were available).

The family toasted and Bonnie raised her glass. “Nial couldn’t find a finer lass in all of Scotland.” She took a drink and then another, before adding, "It's unfortunate that sometimes the pretty cake isn't the best tasting. But Laird Maclee has so many dishes to choose from that I fear 'twould take an exceptional dish indeed to make him forego such a feast."

Heather considered that and gave a long sigh as she glanced out the window. She knew all too well that the loveliest lasses in the land dangled after the laird. She'd seen them pawing him on the dance floor. She'd seen it so often that she'd memorized the gesture he used to swat away their hands that had earned its own nickname - the Maclee swipe.

Bonnie put a tender hand to her daughter's cheek and tried one more time. “Heather, why don’t we delay the trip a bit and do some shopping first. Love, your exotic looks, properly showcased, along with your passion - and I know Nial won’t miss that - might get you that prize you’ve sighed over your life long. Accept my guidance and take a chance!”

“Leave the lass, alone. She has other assets that Maclee already appreciates,” Carrick said. "Don't forget the fair, love."

“You think the man will give up his faerie fated love and tie himself to our daughter while she looks like that?” Bonnie's voice sharpened. “A wallflower will not gain the eye, much less the vow, of Nial Maclee! For goodness sakes, he's fought the schemes of beauties trying to trap him beneath the parson’s noose for years. They say the lad is the spitting image of Ian whose masculine glory lured a faerie.”

Carrick walked to Heather and jerked off the bonnet she'd retrieved, ignoring her attempts to snatch it back. “Stand,” he ordered in the daddy tone that couldn’t be ignored. Heather stood, and Carrick removed her hairpins before unwinding the tight bun atop her head. Then he ruffled her hair until it flowed about her wildly. He glanced around the room and finally seized the fabric tying back the curtains. He looped it around his daughter's waist.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Heather snapped. Being looked at was her worst nightmare. Now her beloved father arranged her like a freak at a carnival. Yes, Da saw beauty but he looked through eyes that loved her. Someday, Nial would too but he'd never see her like this or he'd run away screaming. How dare her father do this to her?

Carrick didn’t scold her for her temper. He stepped back, “Look, Bonnie! Just take a look at our lass. There is not another lady on the Isle of Skye, nay not in all of Scotland and England combined who can compare with her. The Maclee is renowned for his appreciation of the fairer sex. He’ll not miss this.”

Carrick strode around Heather, pointing out her virtues. "The lass looks glorious, even in the feed sack she's wearing. God gifted her hair with every hue of brown he'd ever created. All rumpled like this it looks like she's been up to things a father doesn't want to consider. Her golden eyes snap with temper but it's a hot emotion and for comparison it'll do. And her shape, well, let's just say that Maclee is bound to remember with his head what he felt with his hands."

Carrick stepped back and winked at Heather who tried not to cry as the reminder of the fair spurred the dratted thought she refused to entertain. Whatever Nial had seen and felt, it hadn't been enough. Would it ever be enough? Could she ever be enough? Carrick raised his glass and Bonnie echoed his motion.

“To what do we toast?” Bonnie asked.

“To our Heather, the Maclee’s faerie fated forever!” Carrick roared the toast and clinked his glass with his wife’s.

As they toasted without her, Heather ran upstairs, unable to fight her tears anymore. She closed the door and frantically wound her hair into a bun. When it was as small as she could make it, she squished it under the large bonnet she kept hidden beneath her bed in the event of an emergency like one of Mother's sneak attacks. Once, her mother burned every bonnet Heather owned. She'd had to hide in her room for a week, sewing replacements. Now, with her disguise firmly in place, she ripped the stupid fabric from her waist and threw herself on the bed.

Her parents were idiots to believe she could be anything but what she was - plain and more than a little strange. Her brown hair mixed tones of every hue in that color's spectrum, from nearly blonde to almost red. Odd. Her hair was odd. Her best friend, Anice MacBain, had beautiful golden yellow hair – the color of daisies bathing in sunshine. Anice’s older sister, Elspeth, had hair the color of flames in the fireplace. Heather’s hair couldn't decide what color to be and tried to be a whole bunch of them at once. And eyes? Anice’s were baby blue and Elspeth’s were emerald green. Heather? Like her hair, her eyes were odd. Her Athair, her Da, called her eyes golden. “Pure gold lassie, just like you.” But then, Athair was a bit partial. Eyes should be blue or brown or green. Gold eyes were downright strange.

The good Lord could've at least given her a pleasing shape, like her petite friends. But no, she took her height from her father and towered over every other woman at a gathering. That should have been simple enough, but like her hair, her shape just couldn’t make up its mind and be consistent. She had hideous bags on her chest that Granny called the devil’s playthings.

Mother’s scheme would work as well as dressing up the kitchen offal. On the other hand, scraps in a fancy dress would look better than she did. But her looks wouldn't matter to Nial. He was a dreamer searching for a dream that would only be found within. Dreams arise from the spirit and carve their own reality. Nial would love the woman inside her because she was the dreamer who shared his dream.

She'd considered him her Prince Charming before the fair. Afterwards, she was certain he was her prince. The good Prince loved the beauty Cinderella became, but it was to the girl garbed as a scald that he gave the slipper and his heart.

Surely, her Prince Charming could do no less.

CHAPTER THREE

“Damn, damn, double damn, bloody damn, hell!” Nial tossed his nearly empty glass of whiskey in the fireplace, causing a wild flare that suited his mood. The crash was satisfying, but not enough. He wanted to break something else.

“Apparently you don’t even say hello the way the rest of us do. The drama is nice. I can see how it would draw the lasses to soothe you. Tell me, is that the secret of your success with the ladies?” Calum entered chuckling. "I knew this explosion was imminent as soon as the elders made their big announcement at dinner. So they're throwing you a surprise party that starts tomorrow and the invitations have already been sent. I bet you were surprised, all right."

“Calum, what are the odds that she won’t show up?” Nial asked in the tone of one who already knew the answer.

“I’d say we have better odds of the King showing up to beg you to take his throne.”

“I hoped to avoid this until I was already married,” Nial replied.

Calum said, “Don’t know why. You didn’t mind her presence a'tall at the fair.”

“I was in rut. It had been a long time since I’d been with a woman.”

“All of about four or five hours as I recall.”

Nial poured another drink. “Heather stares with her heart in her eyes. The other lasses are easier to deal with since it’s not my heart they want. Damn her father and the elders! For that matter, damn you too. You caused the mess at the fair. All of you want me to vow fidelity to a lass who's as plain as an old brog. No, most of my shoes look better than that hag in a bag. I’m supposed to remain faithful to that one and resist the claws of passion my faerie fated love will inspire?” He snorted as he strode to the window. “I’m a man, not a God.”

Nial gazed moodily at the preparations outside. With his black hair wildly askew and his navy eyes snapping with temper, he rubbed the dimpled chin that the lasses sighed over. “I admit that my looks and the family legend have taken me a long way. Maybe I am a bit spoiled when it comes to women.”

“A bit spoiled?" Calum asked incredulously. "How about a lot spoiled, excessively spoiled, abundantly spoiled? The prettiest lasses in the land plot to bring themselves to your attention and when that fails they sneak into your bed.”

“I make my squire check out bedrooms before I enter. God forbid, my mighty Maclee lust should force me to the altar,” Nial sighed. “I’m thirty and have never come close to falling in love. That won’t change no matter how acquainted I become with Heather. Other than the fact that she could never spur me with claws of passion, falling in love with her would be convenient. The damned faerie curse is designed to make life a hell on earth one way or another. It’s never convenient.”

“Marriage to her will give our clan her dowry, which is huge, and you know that we are in dire need of the filthy lucre," Calum said. "It also gives us rights to most of the land on Skye. All the smaller landholders banded together would never be a threat. 'Twould take a huge force from the mainland to be a threat, and then, there’s always the faerie flag.”

At the mention, Nial unconsciously patted his brechan feiladh where the pouch containing the flag rested in a hidden pocket. “The faerie flag, what a mixed blessing that is. My great grandmother many times removed might've blessed us more if she'd just let little Ian cry for a while. All babes cry. But no, she brings the cloth and swaddles him in it the one time in his little life the bairn was allowed to cry. At least the bairn had a good memory, because when he could spit out a sentence he remembered to tell his Da that the cloth was a flag that could be used three times to summon aide from the fairies. They say the lad's first word was flag. Little Ian would point at the cloth and say the word. That's likely a good thing because it would have been fodder for the ragbag otherwise. It keeps the clan safe even if its laird isn’t safe or happy.”

“The flag has only been used, what, once? Two uses remain?”

Nial shook his head no. “Twice. It has been used twice. Once when Clan Donald besieged Kilcuillin. We were short-handed because most of the warriors were off aiding the MacKenzies on the mainland. Our defenses were outnumbered four to one. There was no choice; it was use the flag or die. That laird waved it three times and faerie magic caused the Donald forces to see many more warriors than had been there a minute ago. They thought that we were reinforced so they retreated.”

“I have heard about that. What was the other time?”

“The family kept that one quiet. It was during one of the periods when marriages for love had depleted the coffers and a scourge started killing the cattle. Winter was coming and the clan would have starved. That chieftain waved the flag from the tallest tower. Hosts of faeries appeared and touched each dead or dying cow with their swords. Those cattle rose to form a fat and healthy herd, more than sufficient to feed everyone for the winter.” Nial said solemnly, “No one was proud of having to use the flag that time. It wasn’t something to brag about. We don’t discuss it really.”

“So you've not used it? That last use would be a daily temptation.”

“I’ve been tempted. Once or twice, a wench has come close to pulling off one of those marital traps. Didn’t use it though. I don’t think that the faeries would be amused to have it used to thwart their fun. It might not even work.” Nial said, plopping himself down into his favorite chair before the fire, the one that let him stretch his feet to warm upon the hearth.

“I’ve got it!” Calum exclaimed, “You should wave it over the head of Heather the Hag. Or maybe just make her touch it so she would disappear in a puff of smoke. That’s supposed to happen, right?”

For a minute, if only in jest, Nial thought about it. But that was only because he would do just about anything to get out of the dreaded ordeal.

“You’ve got to admit, buddy. Marriage to her would solve a lot of difficulties. When Carrick passes you'd be laird over both clans. The MacIver’s mineral deposits, their skilled weavers and artisans, a large herd of sheep and cattle – that would change the future of the clan forever and safeguarding the clan's future is your first duty,” reminded Calum. "I know I'd feel that way if I were laird."

“Great green toad frogs, not you too! I bloody well know my duty. I’ve put the clan first every day of my life. But must I sacrifice my entire future for it? Must I volunteer to live in torment, besieged by desire for the lass that I can’t have? She's out there somewhere, the woman who will fire my passion and hold my heart.” He tightened his jaw. “The welfare of the clan is important but do I have to sacrifice my manhood for it? If so, it would be kinder for them to just chop the bloody thing off and be done with it.”

Yes, Nial's love was out there. He didn’t know who she was, but he damned well knew who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Heather.

Calum tilted his head to the side and nodded. “Other women will be here and some of them, doubtless, will be new. Maybe you’ll meet your fate before you are forced to such an extreme sacrifice.”

Nial perked up at the thought. It could happen. After all, she had to be somewhere. He was cheered enough to order a maid to fetch some uisge-betha. He even ordered the good stuff, the malt whiskey crafted carefully by the master brewer at Kilcuillin. The blends would do for the festival, but tonight, he needed reinforcement.

He downed a mug with his friend before another need came to mind.

“You know, before we're overrun by women targeting that manhood we were discussing it might be wise for me to soothe it. It’s never a good thing to enter the fray needy. I’ve learned that the hard way,” the laird said thoughtfully, with navy fire beginning to kindle in his gaze.

"By all means, let's pick a winner of tonight's bed-the-laird contest. Then I get my pick of the losers. A second rate lay for the second place guy," Calum said, adding quickly, "But I'm only joking, of course. How about Mairi? You’ve had her several times lately. She must be talented.”

“No. She won’t do. The last time we were together, she said something about tearing out Ila’s hair if she touched me again. That smacks of possession. I’m done with her.”

“Sorcha,” Nial said, suddenly inspired. “How about Sorcha? She’s dubh gray-eyed, petite and blessed in all the right places. I wouldn’t mind exploring those curves.”

“She's attractive enough, but I find her strange," Calum replied. "Besides, I always thought she took her husband’s death entirely too well. What brought her to mind?”

“The other day, I was hunting and met her in the forest. She said she was enjoying nature, but she was pretty far out for a stroll. Anyway, she let me know she would welcome a visit.” Nial's navy eyes heated with remembered passion. “I’d have taken her up on her invitation then and there but the hunting party rode up too quickly.”

“It’s strange that none of the women like her, Nial. The other day, I heard several saying that her character was as black as her hair.”

“That’s okay - it’s not her character I’m interested in,” Nial said with an exaggerated leer.

As both walked out of the study, Calum warned, “Watch your back. I still say I would tread carefully with that one.”

It was advice the laird should have heeded. As the men spoke, Sorcha stood in the back of her cottage finishing a special potion. She'd gathered the ingredients from far-flung nooks and crannies of the forest. She would slip it in his drink when he came tonight, as her dark mentor assured her he would. The potent passion the brew inspired just before the interloper arrived would convince the laird that love would soon follow. If he believed that, he would never heed the elders’ urgings to wed the plain lass.

A love potion would have guaranteed success but those were much harder and required greater skill. She'd make do with stirring Nial's baser urges, but she'd make the potion double strength. Passion was a potent force in the life of the sensual laird. He just confined it to women he considered safe, so she transformed herself into one of those women. Luring Tomas to wed her had been child’s play. She suffered his touch for a few weeks before she cast the spell to throw off his balance. Her husband died from the fall, giving Sorcha the status that the arrogant laird deemed safe. Hah. The fool should have realized that some widows are of the black variety.

Sorcha was determined to succeed where so many others had failed. Once she wed the laird, she'd have Kilcuillin and the faerie flag. Then she'd cease brewing the potion. Marriage would bind him and she would no longer have to suffer any man’s pawing. Once she got her hands on that faerie flag, the power she desired above all else would be hers.

She finished just as the knock sounded at the door. She glanced down at the gossamer gown she wore and deemed it sufficient. She arranged herself before the fire, aware that in its light the sheer fabric would cast wicked red highlights, enhancing rather than obscuring the curve of her breasts.

“Thig a stigh,” come in, she called.

“Beannachid de,” hello, said the man who stood at the door, unaware that he was a fly, being lured to a carefully constructed web.

The sight of her bounty, enhanced by the gossamer gauze, sparked his interest as soon as he entered. He couldn’t tear his attention from the breasts that peaked as his eyes caressed them.

“They won’t help you close the door.”

“What?” He reddened as he realized he'd left the portal wide open.

“Hello, Laird Maclee.” She approached carrying the goblets she filled moments earlier. “Would you join me in a glass of wine?”

He glanced at the goblets. Had he been expected? He'd given her no notice that he would seek her out tonight. Caution bade him to turn down the brew, but she stood a step away, clad in a sparkling red shadow, looking hotter than the fire. Worse, her attention fixed vividly, voraciously on his tenting kilt. Thrown off balance, he took the beverage and began to drink.

“Please, have a seat. Tell me, did you come in pursuit of livelier game before you are cornered by the little mouse?” She sat down in a black chair across from him and casually threw a leg over each arm of the chair, spreading her furry black mons for his eager inspection.

“You know about the party, and Heather?” Her pointed comment surprised him and inspired another of those strange urges to defend the lass. As much to keep his mouth shut as anything, he gulped the rest of the brew.

She got up to refill his goblet. “Everyone but you knew. If the elders could, they would wrap you and,” she reached between his thighs to tweak his erection, “tie this up in a pretty little bow and feed it to the mouse.”

She released his member, trailing long nails down the length of it through the kilt, before she returned to her chair.

“Shall you let them?” She asked.

“Ahh, what?” He'd lost all grasp of the conversation. His eyes were glued to her breasts, so she got up and walked near him to top off his goblet again. He didn’t want more wine, but he wanted those breasts closer. Like a green lad he could only stare at her erect nipples. One long black lock brushed his forearm as she poured. He quivered and pressed his thighs together.

He reached for her when she turned to go back to her chair. “Would you like to spend the evening talking about another woman, or could we move on to more stimulating activities?”

She smiled and crooked a finger as she moved toward the bed. He followed, unsure why he obeyed the unspoken command. He didn’t ponder long because his little head ruled his body right now and thinking was not that head’s preference. It invariably sought a more physical game.

She spread herself like a feast for his ravenous appetite. When he moved to join her on the bed she shook her head, no. “I’m not the only one who likes a good view, laird. You’ve been looking a lot since you arrived.”

He flushed, because he knew he’d been leering like a lad about to take his first woman. Oddly, he started removing his kilt before he questioned why he was doing it. He never obeyed orders from women, even if they coincided with his own desire at the moment. He refused out of sheer ingrained contrariness. And he intended to refuse now, but she'd started to toy with her turgid nipples through the gossamer and he was entranced. His hands tore his kilt away before he could stop himself.

“You’ve been a good boy. Now you get a prize,” she said.

He leapt into the bed. Although he'd taken far prettier women, for some reason, he wanted this one. He wanted this one a lot.

She smiled and trailed teasing fingernails down the length of the staff that most of the women who panted after him would only grasp in their dreams.

“Now it begins,” she murmured, as her skilled talons teased his tormented need, keeping him at the edge of the precipice, knowing the anticipation would make the pleasure all the more intense when she finally allowed it. His answer was a deep groan, but t'was all the response she sought. He thrust and moaned in a haze of chemically enhanced lust, nearly helpless in a world where only the need in his loins was real.

Early morning arrived before he could tear himself away. He opened the door of his room, acknowledging that he was exhausted. Unfortunately, his bed was already occupied. He didn’t know who the young woman was, but she was blonde and beautiful and naked. Following his normal pattern, he left the door open and stood in the doorway as he called for his squire, instructing him to get the woman out of there. He had learned that it was better not to cross the threshold at all.

He was too spent to endure the trauma of another eviction, so he went to Calum’s room, where he bedded down when he was too tired to await the dramatic retreat of a thwarted schemer. His entry disturbed the other man.

“Another wench in your bed?” Calum asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who was it this time?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Nial answered.

Calum sniffed and chuckled groggily. “I can tell why you weren’t interested. Don’t know who you’ve been with tonight but she must be good. You reek of sex. Who was it?”

“Sorcha. Yes, she was good. Exceptional in fact.”

He'd invited her to attend the festivities. The elders would scream and complain which might be why he did it, he wasn’t sure. He'd been so turned on that his brain wasn’t working well, if at all. He didn’t know what he’d been feeling, but it seemed like claws of passion. Was this the one? Virginity was prized in his family. All the other faerie fated loves had been virginal. It seemed odd that he would vary from the pattern, and his heart felt strangely intact. His loins were surely involved, but not his heart.

Still he was happy. This was the first time he felt anything close to the long-awaited claws so he would see if the rest followed. He rolled over, and went to sleep as the morning sun crept into the room.

Several hours later, Heather vibrated with excitement. The coach drew within site of the castle that rose from atop a rocky outcropping to loom majestically over a world of water. The front entry showcased manicured hedges, but the side garden was like the Highlands, wild and free. Surrounded by a loch and rising over the Sea of the Hebrides, the castle took its name from the mountains. The magical atmosphere of the Isle had its source at Kilcuillin, the castle held by the clan with the blood of the Shining Folk running through their veins.

The elders awaited the family. They made no comment upon Heather's appearance, opting instead for diplomacy. “We will show you to your chamber, lass, so you can change and be prepared to greet the laird.”

Hints that hurt seldom found their mark, but this prick felt particularly sharp. “Many have that wish but none more so than my mother," Heather said, gesturing towards Bonnie. "I am who I am and how I am, I fear, sir.”

One of the elders wrinkled his brow, shrugged, and then summoned a servant to help her upstairs. Heather didn’t linger in the room long. What did one of her dresses matter rather than another? She could never change enough to be fit to greet Nial. After prowling for a few minutes, she gave up and went back downstairs.

“Surely you had something else to put on,” Bonnie nearly growled when Heather appeared. The room was already filling with beautiful women, each wearing a gown more sensational, and lower cut than the next. It was quite plain what sort of interest they planned to inspire.

“No, Mother. Everything I have is pretty much the same. If you'll excuse me, I shall go and blend quietly into the woodwork,” she smirked, and her mother sighed in exasperation.

It was another three-quarters of an hour before the laird arrived. Nial bearded the lion in his den by joining Seamus, one of the more avid proponents of the match from hell. "I see Laird and Lady MacIver but I do not see the chit you most wish me to. Where is she?"

Seamus pointed to the girl standing in front of a window with her face pressed against the panel.

"I looked right over her twice," Nial said caustically, "But that's hardly surprising, is it. She is so easy to overlook."

"Make an effort, laird," Seamus gritted between his teeth.

"Since I apparently can't put this off forever, let's get this over with and I shall pray that soonest started is indeed, soonest ended."

The elder called Heather's name, which was rare enough in a social gathering to startle her. Then he insisted she walk over to greet Nial. For an instant, she looked at him, her panic as plain in her posture as in her soul. She remained frozen. Seamus had to get her and walk her over to the laird. She'd spoken to him only once, that time at the fair. How did you greet a highland laird who wanted you the same way he wanted pestilence and famine?

Nial's natural charm took over to sooth her. “Lady Heather, what a pleasure to meet you at last. It was remiss of me not to visit and extend my apologies to you personally after that horrid incident at the fair.”

Heather smiled and offered her hand. Nial took it and kissed it in greeting. As his lips grazed her fingers, she humiliated herself by moaning. She promptly tried to snatch her hand away.

“I believe I shall keep it for now,” Nial said, surprised to find that he meant it. What was the jolt he felt when his lips met her fingers? He’d never felt anything like it before. Well, he amended, only once before and that involved her too.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Laird Maclee. I was about to say that I doubt women generally moan in greeting, but perhaps to you,” she said brightly, “they do.”

“Well, usually they just try to grab me somewhere.” He winked. “On the whole, I believe I prefer the moan.”

His words were polite, but inside, he was horrified. Surely the elders could not think him capable of vowing fidelity to this lass. She wore a long sleeved gray dress made of enough fabric to clothe nearly every female servant in his household. It bore not a bit of lace or trim and looked like a sack. Certainly, it had all the appeal of a sack. Her hair was stuffed into a bonnet and she looked like a granny. He must have been drunker than he thought at that fair.

Soon other arrivals drew him away. He played host and greeted several families, each with one or more daughters in tow. Invariably, the daughters batted their eyelashes – reminding him of spiders caught in a gale. Several propositioned him and one made a grab for his crotch right in the foyer. He was, as always, ready with the Maclee swipe. After that, he turned away in disgust, deciding he had greeted more than enough people. As he turned, he spotted Heather heading upstairs.

He called to her, “Not tired of the party already are you?”

She shrugged. “I'm going upstairs to read for a bit.”

“A dime novel?” He teased, approaching her so that he could say it softly. “One of those passionate tales of lust and eternal love?”

“I’m sure that would make a better impression. I really should lie and say it was, but actually it’s a new text on medicinal herbs.”

“Indeed?” He was surprised. Most of the women he met cared about nothing except their appearance, their surroundings, the weather and catty gossip about the other women present.

At his interest, her face lit up and she nodded. He moved a bit closer to hear her words, and she went on to say, “I have a great interest in learning more about the healing powers of herbs.”

“Do you use your knowledge or simply store it away?” Admittedly, he was challenging her a bit with that, and he fully expected the pontific response that knowledge is never wasted. Perfectly true, but not the point at present. Maybe, he just wanted to see how brightly her eyes could sparkle – if he could see them under the wretched bonnet.

Instead of the response he expected she smiled and tilted her chin up. “Improper as it may be to admit it, such small knowledge that I have I do use. If there is something I can do to help, why then I am obliged to do it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He was leaning towards her as she stood a step above him on the stairs. He hadn’t even realized that he was holding her hand as they spoke. But just as she tossed the challenging question at him, and his eyes sparkled at the prospect of having an intelligent debate with a woman, he heard a cackle behind him. He turned to find Sorcha glaring at Heather’s hand, prompting the lass to jerk away from his grasp. The black-haired woman put her hand on his arm as she spoke in a voice designed to carry to the ladies grouped at the foot of the stairs and the older matrons just starting to make their way down.

“Tell me you didn’t just confess to exposing yourself to all manner of improper sights and vermin to treat some servant or tenant farmer or one of the many bairns they sprout like weeds?” Sorcha glanced at her audience, “Hardly the actions of a lady, my dear. Certainly not behavior that Laird Nial would approve.” Sorcha finished her speech with a burst of laughter, and those nearby joined her.

A couple of male voices raised, saying, “Here, here!”

Heather didn’t bother to await a response from Nial, since he was apt to agree with the sentiments voiced by the beautiful black-haired witch who rested her hand on his arm so casually. Fighting back tears, Heather sprinted upstairs, accompanied by laughter that grew louder as she ran.

Nial noticed a maid a couple of stairs away sweeping up some shattered glass. He saw the maid's eyes narrow as she raised her broom and turned around quickly, striking the glass in Sorcha's hand. It tilted and red wine cascaded over Nial's shirt and pants. He bit his lip to keep from raising his own voice in a cheer for the maid and reminded himself to raise her pay instead.

The widow coiled like a viper as she rounded on the servant brimming with false apologies. Sorcha shouted, “You little bitch!” She raised her hand to strike as the girl flinched.

Nial caught Sorcha's hand, preventing the blow. His expression was as cold as his voice. “We do not strike our servants.”

Sorcha stammered that she'd been carried away by concern for his comfort.

Nial cut off her words, not interested in hearing more at the moment. “If you will all excuse me,” he said with a courtly bow to his guests, “I must go upstairs and change. By all means, you should enjoy the party without me.”

He mounted the stairs, fighting an impulse to go after Heather and be sure she was all right. To tell her that he didn't agree with Sorcha. And perhaps even to touch her again to find out why he had the strange sense of being cast adrift when she snatched away her hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

When she reached the safety of her room, Heather sprawled across the bed. She was so full of love and hate that she felt she might explode. In the brief moments of their exchange, Nial had been the living embodiment of her dreams – intelligent, considerate and caring. He seemed interested in talking and even in considering her thoughts, her opinions. He held her hand. She flexed it and stared at it as though it looked different now that it had been graced with his touch.

Who was the woman? Did she have some hold on him? Heather wasn’t sure who she was but instinct told her what the woman was. Evil. The woman was pure evil and proof positive that beauty could exist only on the outside. But she and the laird did make a handsome couple, so dark headed and attractive, so confident and self-assured. Both were everything Heather wasn’t.

Heather knew she was too strange to be considered even passably attractive. But that was okay because pretty so often meant a weak character, like Mother’s. Granny said that the time Mother spent on hair and clothes and such could've been better spent helping the poor and the sick. Heather sometimes thought Granny had been right, although she had to acknowledge that her mother didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body. Even though Granny was gone now, Heather still felt like the rope in a tug-of-war, eternally stretched between Granny and Mother. She thought about it whenever she saw that look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes. And whenever she refused another of Mother’s attempts to dress her up or take away her bonnets and stuff her in one of those heathen garments the others wore. It wouldn’t matter anyway because like Granny said, Heather was a sow’s ear sure enough.

A knock sounded at the door, and she opened it to find the young maid who'd been cleaning the stairs when Heather fled.

“Beggin’ ye’r pardon lassie, but I’ve a note for ye from the laird.” The girl said with a curtsey.

“Thank you, ahmm ...”

“It’s Fenella, ma'am.”

“What a lovely name. Thank you, Fenella”.

The girl took her leave and Heather hurried to read her note. A note from Nial. Imagine!

It said, Lady Heather, please accept my apologies for the scene you had to endure on the stairs. Rest assured that Sorcha does not speak for me. I hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner, as I have asked that you be seated beside me, in hopes that we may continue our discussion. Nial Maclee.

She read it three times, then traced it several more, following the strokes of the quill and imagining him writing it and thinking of her.

It was nearly dinnertime, so she might as well head downstairs. She cast a single wistful look at her closet, wishing she had something that would dress up the sow’s ear a little. On her way out the door, she paused by a mirror, glancing at her bonnet. She started to remove it, but remembered Granny warning that anyone who saw her hair would be “plumb scairt” by the strange concoction.

Regretfully, Heather simply walked out the door. She was even more regretful a few moments later when she arrived downstairs. She entered the room like what she was - an ugly duckling gliding into a pool of swans.

“You poor thing,” one of the kinder matrons said.

Another woman leaned to the kind lady and whispered something.

The kind lady snorted and answered her whispering companion without bothering to whisper her response. “No. Not possible. I’m an elder, so I'm old but I’m not an old fool. Laird Maclee will never tie himself to that one.”

Heather breathed deeply and found a nice, hidden corner to sit in. It was there that Nial found her a few minutes later. He asked permission to join her on the small sofa, and she shakily replied, “Well, after all, it is your sofa.”

“I suppose that is correct,” Nial agreed, with a smile that turned sad as he sat down and looked at her through lowered lashes. He shook his head slightly and sighed as he took her hand. “I’m so sorry about, well about all of it. I fear you've not been treated well at Kilcuillin thus far.”

“I’m fine, Laird Maclee. You mustn’t trouble yourself. Such things happen to me often,” Heather said, finding his sympathy more difficult to stomach than open animosity. She could withstand hatred and jeers easily enough. She had lots of practice.

"So you take taunts like that often? You poor thing. No one should have to face such animosity."

The sympathy had been tough enough but her spirit rebelled at the pity. She turned the tables and challenged him. “I’m sure such things never happen to you do they, Laird Maclee?”

“Nial, please, if you will allow me to call you Heather. No, you’re right. Such things don’t generally happen to me.”

“But then again, I rarely have to spend my time fighting off the wandering hands of suitors, and I understand that happens to you all the time,” she commented and the man across from her started before he threw back his head and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Heather asked.

“On the rare occasions when I'm forced to acknowledge one female's attention to another I'm usually treated to a veritable font of jealous, spiteful comments. Or else I hear something like, why that cat, how could she presume to touch you. Somehow, Heather, you don’t seem quite as eager to protect me or fence me in as the other lasses.”

“It looks to me like a big braw lad like you could take care of yourself, ” she said as she quirked a brow doubtfully. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, nothing I could do would assist you. As to the fence, if you don't erect it yourself I imagine you'd spend a lot of time figuring out how to scale it.”

"You're a canny, cunning wench, aren't you?" Nial asked. "Your words remind me of a book written by a Scottish philosopher. It's titled, Lads, Lasses and Labels. Have you read it?"

"McLamb's challenge to the traditional role of the sexes?" Heather asked. "I've devoured the thing. But you're the first lad I've heard admit to reading it. What did you think?"

Her questions launched a lively debate that continued with gusto until Sorcha showed up carrying two goblets of wine. The black-haired widow passed one to Nial before she cast a spiteful glance at Heather. “I fear I was too delicate to carry a third one.”

Heather's spirit dimmed as she observed the laird watch the conniving bitch. Before she suppressed it with a Granny homily, she heard her mother's voice in her head talking about the pretty lure. Nial's eyes swept the length of the other woman without a trace of pity or sympathy. The widow wore a silver garment cut tight enough to have been sewn on. The seamstress must have been running low on fabric before reaching the neckline. Her breasts peeped over the top like apples piled too high in a basket. 'Twas male interest for the other woman sparkling in Nial's eyes so clearly that inexperienced Heather identified it as he drained the goblet in two swallows.

“All that talk must have stirred a thirst. I thank you for quenching it, Sorcha,” Maclee said with a wink.

“I’ll be glad to quench your thirst, anytime, ” Sorcha replied, perching on the arm of the sofa beside the laird. The movement caused her unbound black locks to trail down and touch his neck. She turned towards him and hunched her shoulders slightly to display even more of her breasts than the low cut garment did already. Heather tried to keep up the conversation, but Nial wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the woman’s bosom. She shook her head at how easily the ploy distracted the laird and tried again to suppress her mother's caution about the pretty lure.

Trailing a finger down Nial's arm, the widow said, “She and I both wear gray tonight. Who wears the color better?”

Nial responded in a voice much deeper than it had been a moment ago. “There is really no comparison, is there, my dear?”

Heather flinched at the question that had only one answer. That it was true wasn’t the point. It was out of character for the man she believed him to be. The words, coming from him, hurt a great deal and she said, "Honesty can be more brutal than all the taunts and jeers."

Nial's eyes didn't leave the fruit about to overflow the widow's basket but his cheeks took on a bit of the hue of those apples and he winced at the direct blow. "I didn't mean..."

The wicked widow interrupted, standing directly before the laird as she tugged an amulet of some sort that had conveniently fallen into the vast crevice of her cleavage. She fingered it as she spoke. “Since I compare so favorably, perhaps you could tear yourself away from the pleasure of her company and join me in private for a moment.”

Heather watched Nial gulp as he goggled at the charm swaying over the prominent produce. An odd cloud swept over his navy eyes as his tongue rimmed his lips. After silent moments that felt like forever, he stood and Sorcha placed a proprietary hand on his forearm.

A pang of alarm impelled her to save the braw laird and a spasm of jealousy spurred a sudden longing for a fence. Compelled a bit by both, Heather tried to draw back his attention and chase away those clouds. “I will see you at dinner so that we can continue our conversation.”

He didn’t answer and his mesmerized regard didn't waver.

Still fiddling with the talisman, Sorcha replied instead. “It’s not conversation he wants from me dear. You shouldn’t hold your breath waiting for him. Then again, do. Please do.”

Heather awaited Nial's return throughout the meal but the chair beside hers remained empty. It received glares from all of the elders and across the way she saw her mother lightly rub her father's shoulder in an apparent effort to calm him. It didn't seem to help because Da's ruddy face darkened every time he looked at the chair.

Calum made his way to Heather after dinner and apologized for the scene at the fair, which he assured her would never have happened if he hadn’t had too much to drink. She knew this man was Nial’s friend and clansman and decided to err on the side of forgiveness. She put on a smile, chatted and pretended an animation she didn’t feel because she had too much pride to appear devastated by Maclee’s desertion. They traded stories about interesting folks who were members of each clan

He told her a story of a farmer. “Old Ian Grant spent his life trying to create the perfect Highland plough. The problem was, he worked so hard at thinking up new ways to improve the device that he never managed to use it to tend his fields. His wife refused to hear a bad word about him – she defended him right up to the point where she keeled over one day tending those fields. Old Ian was a few feet away at the time, drawing a plough design on the dirt for their sons, who weren’t working either. It was some time before any of them noticed that the one who did all the work had gone on to her reward. ‘Twas said she passed with a smile on her face because she was lying down for the first time in years.”

Heather laughed. “That reminds me of Cora. Her marriage was a contentious union, as her husband never tended the land to her satisfaction. Cora let him know about it too. She let him know at home, at the pub, at clan celebrations – pretty much anywhere he happened to be at the time. He took to hiding from his nagging wife. He passed in a cave, and it took Cora half a day to find him. When she did, she had been complaining for about fifteen minutes before it occurred to her that anything was wrong.”

Calum laid his hand on her arm. “Perhaps we should introduce the widower and the widow, Heather.”

“Yes indeed. Do you suppose she would get any work out of him?”

“I suppose that both our clans would be betting on that for years to come.”

After several more tall tales, Heather rose to leave. Calum tried to detain her but finally acceded to her pleas that she was tired. He insisted on escorting her to her room. She was so keyed up and worn out that she reached up and removed her bonnet before the door shut completely. She didn’t see Calum stick a foot in the opening to watch her unwind her bun before she ran her hands through her hair and shook it out. Then she sat at the bureau and started combing the long rainbow.

Calum spoke from the doorway long after she thought him gone. "How doesn't Nial see this?"

Heather jumped to her feet and grabbed her bonnet, intending to jam it on her head. She didn't because she realized it was much too late. It was also much too useless since he'd now seen her freakish hair and seemed to be mesmerized by her cursed eyes.

"Don't," he said as a command before he altered it. "Please don't. You're exquisite and unique and absolutely breathtaking. Comparing you to all the women downstairs is like comparing a Highland meadow in spring to a Sassenach garden."

"And yet their laughter is far kinder than your sarcasm, sir."

"I can't imagine how Nial doesn't see this. Has he been so blinded by rage that he can't see the truth beneath your disguise?"

Heather twisted the bonnet between anxious fingers. Her heart beat so fast there didn't seem to be a space between thumps. This man was the laird's friend. Had she ruined everything by a moment of carelessness?

She approached him, nibbling her lower lip anxiously. She laid a hand on his arm and when she spoke her tone was as plaintive as her words. "Calum, I beg you not to tell him. I know you're his friend, but I promise you I mean him no harm. I'd treat him well and I'd make him happy, I really would. This is my chance. I have this one opportunity to make my dreams come true. Please, don't take this away from me. Promise that you won't tell him."

Calum took her hand and raised it to his lips. "My dear, I promise you that if my friend proves himself to be too much a swine to discern the pearl before him, I shall not show it to him. Instead, I will work to teach you the merits of discarding an old, outgrown dream in favor of a new, more fitting one."

"What are you saying?"

"I've always been fond of pearls. If Nial doesn't see the truth I shall make you mine. He'd see then, when it was too late. Laird Maclee would understand that he'd lost the only contest that mattered."

"You're very kind to keep my secret but I fear that he might see my loss as the biggest victory of his life."

"No," Calum whispered. "But you and I shall keep our silence and we shall see who comes in second this time."

Heather watched him walk away, wishing she understood why she had a suicidal urge to find Nial and repeat the conversation to him. Perhaps her conscience simply pricked her at the deception she practiced. Enlisting Nial's friend to conspire against him seemed as wrong as the friend agreeing to do so. How much of her soul would she sacrifice for this dream?

She was a long way from having a chance to sacrifice her soul for the laird at this point. After all, she was so repellent that Nial wandered away with another woman. He must have found her pretty compelling because he hadn't even returned for dinner. Where had they gone?

Armed with the memory of Nial entranced with the witches' beauty, she was settling into one of the activities that occupied her time when she felt particularly low --staring with loathing at her reflection in the mirror. A knock at the door broke her self-absorption. It was Finella, the maid, who rushed in with tears streaming down her face to throw herself at Heather’s feet.

“Ma'am, it’s me little cousin Fergus. He has come down with a dreadful headache and a fever and he is getting worse. Earlier ye said ye studied herbs and such. I’m so sorry to impose like this, but would ye come?”

“Of course,” Heather said, rising to get the black satchel of supplies she never traveled without. There was always plenty of room in her baggage to hide it from her parents. She followed the woman down the back stairs and through an underground passageway. They emerged in a charming glade and walked until they came to a small stone house. It was a nice little cottage, surrounded by worried neighbors gathered in clumps trying to offer help or comfort to the family.

Heather entered the small dwelling to find it spotlessly clean. A blazing fire kept the room toasty, and she had only a minute to notice the cunning woodcarvings that decorated the room. The child’s parents bustled over and the mother looked ready to keel over from worry. She seized Heather’s hand. “Can ye help him? Please.”

With a gentle smile, Heather said, “Fevers can be more frightening than threatening. Try not to worry so. He will need your strength when he is grumpy and wants to run out and play.”

The mother smiled at that and Heather examined the little boy. Despite her comforting words, she knew that fevers could be deadly and this child was hot indeed.

“Sir,” she said, turning to address the father. “Please go outside and fetch some cool water from the well. We shall need to keep doing that because we need the water as cool as possible. If there is an ice house, some ice would be better.”

When the water and ice were fetched, Heather wet the cloth and wrapped it around chunks of ice. She lightly rubbed the child all over, turning him to minister to his back. She had been at the labor for over an hour when the front door opened and Nial walked in. He gave her a friendly nod as he entered the small dwelling.

Heather was exhausted and her arms weighed a hundred pounds but his presence alone imbued her with renewed energy. Trite as it sounded, she felt better because he was there and she knew what that meant, but then again, she had known how she felt about him for a long time.

What she hadn't known was how much friendship could hurt. She learned a little more about that every day.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nial entered the dwelling with a nod to Heather as he walked over to the parents. “Cobb and Jean, I am certain that little Fergus shall recover.” He darted a smile at Heather. “He has the best help possible tending him.”

Nial squatted beside Heather and laid a gentle hand on her arm. She looked up at him and gave a weary smile. He rubbed the strain in her arm before his hand grasped hers to give it a small squeeze.

In a low tone he said, “You don’t have to do this. We have a healer, though he often barks when he is called out at night.”

She smiled. “As does ours. I’m fine. I can help this bairn, so of course I must. Who could refuse to tend a sick bairn? How heartless would that be?”

He watched as she bathed the child in the ice and water. Despite her assurances, her hands were red from the chill. Sorcha, he thought. Sorcha could be that heartless. He had been taking his leave of her over her protests. She followed him into the courtyard where they met Calum, who informed him of young Fergus’ illness and that Heather had been summoned to tend him.

The widow said, “Don’t tell me she actually went out in the middle of the night to tend the relation of a servant? Then again, she has nothing else to occupy her evening hours. I can guarantee that she is not spending them with Nial.”

At her words, he silently cursed himself. When Heather was so obviously the better person, how could he be infatuated with the black-haired wench?

Now he looked over to where Heather bent to her satchel mixing leaves and oil into a wee portion of warmed beer. She propped pillows up behind the child and patiently forced sips into his mouth, massaging his throat to get him to swallow.

When the cup was empty, she asked Nial to hold up the child so he scooped up the lad.

The women changed the bedclothes before Heather piled it with covering.

“Cobb, I need you to stoke the fire. It must be warm, hot even. We want the fever to break.” Then she sat forcing the covers around the child, drops of perspiration dotting her face.

Warmth tightened Nial's chest as he watched the care she took of the bairn.

He wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Let me take over for a spell. You’re exhausted and you should rest. Why don’t you walk outside and cool off.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “While the wee one needs me I shall be here.”

Nial sat down beside her on a small stool and saw her grimace and arch her back. He reached over to rub it. She leaned into his hands as he soothed the strain. He was struck by how natural it seemed and again, by the connection he felt when he touched her. He was struck harder by the twitch he should be far too glutted to experience.

As he leaned close, she sniffed. He must smell like sex, nasty sex, Sorcha sex. He glanced at Cobb questioningly and the other man shook his head and turned up his nose. Nial realized that his clansman knew full well that he'd crawled out of someone’s bed to come here. Likely, given the efficiency of the gossip network, Cobb knew whose thighs he'd crawled away from. Embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Dawn was breaking when the child began to show signs of improvement.

“Cobb, Jean, look, he's sweating.” Heather leaned close to check, “At last, the fever has broken.” Little Fergus gradually began to breathe easier and after a while longer, normally. Then he awoke complaining of hunger.

“It is time to leave,” Nial said, as he took her hand.

Heather hugged the couple. Her face turned pink at Cobb's praise. “An angel, Miss. That is what ye are.”

Jean's words turned Heather's face from pink to red. “If the laird is the man I think he is, this fine lady will soon be our angel. And I’m thinking the Clan Maclee could use one of those.”

The Maclee said not a word to the pointed reminder, but tenderly guided the angel back to the keep, holding her hand the entire time, as they walked in silence. At her door, he turned to her and asked, “Will you do me the honor of walking with me after dinner tonight, Heather?”

“I would like nothing better,” she smiled her acceptance but it was her eyes that caught his attention by beaming her love at him, as openly as if she'd spoken.

“Rest until dinner,” he instructed, before surprising himself by pressing a kiss into her palm.

He went to his room and ordered a bath. Once he cleaned the stench from his body, he fell into an exhausted slumber and slept for most of the day. He arose well before dinner, and went downstairs. The widow appeared although this time she'd not been invited. She acted like the lady of the house, which she was not and would never be. Her boldness and presumption chilled his ardor and he occupied himself with business matters until it was time for dinner.

He continued to expect Heather, but she never appeared. When the dinner gong sounded and she still hadn't arrived, he began to worry that she might have caught a fever from the bairn.

Nial stood and put the question to the group. “Has anyone seen Heather?”

Sorcha snorted, and looked disdainfully at the MacIvers. “I ran into her as I arrived. She was hardly dressed in a manner befitting this dwelling and such fine company. I told her that since she dressed like a servant and bestirred herself to attend them when they fell ill, that she could very well dine with them. You have no need to trouble yourself. She will not be hanging on your sleeves tonight.”

Laird MacIver leapt up and roared. “I demand to know who this wench is and by what right she says such things about my daughter and directs your guests. It is my understanding that we are here to consider a possible match between you and my Heather. Such would be of great benefit to both our clans. I demand that either this wench be banished from our company or my clansmen, my family and I will leave and trouble ourselves of the hospitality of the Clan Maclee no further.”

With MacIver's final words, he threw down the gauntlet. A feud between the two clans would destroy the island. At this moment Nial hated the widow profoundly. His time with her had done and meant no more than satisfying an odd lust. He didn’t understand it because he didn't even like her. Yet he liked having his back pushed to the wall even less. The MacIvers and the elders of his clan had been doing just that for days now.

None of those logical thoughts motivated his actions. His growing admiration for Heather did though. He was fond of her and found her intelligent, brave and caring. She did not deserve the venom from the evil woman who stood before him.

He motioned to two clansmen and ordered them to escort Sorcha out of the castle.

“Do not presume to return to my household again without an invitation,” he said, looking into her eyes coldly as she passed.

She snatched her arm from the grasp of the men leading her and stepped in front of Nial. “Laird Maclee, do not presume to return to my bed again without an invitation either.” The company gasped and she smiled at his visible fury at having been called to the carpet in front of all and sundry.

Carrick stood again, calling to him loudly. Nial didn’t want to speak to the man just now and doubted he could be civil anyway.

“I suggest that everyone proceed with dinner. Laird MacIver, you need have no concern for Heather. I will go to attend her now.”

Somewhat mollified, Carrick motioned the group to dinner. Nial left to go to the kitchen. He entered quietly, and found Heather laughing and talking to the group of servants who enjoyed the meal in much greater humor than was generally found among guests in the dining room. They all competed for Heather’s attention and fought to serve her.

When two maids argued over who would fill her cup and she protested that she could fill her own, he spoke for the first time. “Perhaps one of you could fetch me a cup and plate instead.”

The chief cook made a startled noise and commenced shouting at her staff, having a conniption fit from the laird appearing in her kitchen. He calmed the servant, insisting he wanted to dine here and he shook away the staff’s protests. Nial sat beside Heather who insisted that they could serve themselves. He instructed that it be as she wished and all of the household servants found themselves dining with the chief of the clan in his kitchen.

Before the meal ended he and the lass debated with high good humor whether Shakespeare’s works could possibly be considered classics in Scotland since the writer was English. That led to a discussion of the merits, or lack thereof, of all things English, and before the meal ended the crowd howled with laughter as Nial and a kitchen lad traded funny ditties about the odd ways of the Sassenach.

After the merriment dwindled, Nial turned to her and said, “I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to walk with me in the garden.”

He shifted uneasily at her heart shining from her eyes as she replied, “I could hardly have forgotten such a thing, Nial.”

During their stroll, he found himself discussing a problem with the crops and a punishment he had to decide for a tenant who shirked his service obligation. She had good ideas for both, and before they finished debating the merits of those, he realized how late the hour grew.

He looked at her in today’s brown sack and matching Granny bonnet and wished she were more attractive. She made a good friend but if he married her he would dishonor himself by betraying his vows with another woman. He feared he would end up in a marriage as desperately unhappy as his parent's. The thought of breaching a sacred vow horrified him for he believed a man’s honor defined him. Yet, Nial knew his drives. If claws of passion ever joined with true love, his honor would eventually be breached, making such an outcome inevitable. Yes, if he married his friend he would dishonor himself and make both of them miserable.

He walked her to her room, making an appointment to walk with her in the garden again tomorrow night after dinner. Reluctant to end their companionship, Nial paused at her door. “Heather,” he said, putting a finger under her chin to tilt up her face, “I have not yet apologized for Sorcha's action this evening. She will not trouble you again. I promise that tomorrow you will be free of her.”

Her eyes sparkled with tears at the reminder and he put a finger to gently wipe them from her eyes. “Don’t cry, lass,” he beseeched. Many women resorted to tears thinking to manipulate him. The ploy never worked, for he had hardened himself to withstand them from a young age. Still, the tears of this one tore at his heart. He bent and kissed her on the cheek, and she looked up at him with her heart in her eyes as she bid him good night. He could have seen the color of her eyes then, had he not been so uncomfortable at the emotion in her expression.

He walked away troubled. He could never return her love but he did not want to hurt her, or lose her friendship, the first he'd ever shared with a woman. How to end this by keeping her as a friend, not making her clan an enemy, and leaving him free for his fated love? Or should he bow to the pressure of the elders and wed his friend, barring himself from his love once she did appear?

The friendship between the pair developed apace. Nial sought Heather's company more each day. She calmed him, and in circumstances where his famous temper would normally compel him to do something vastly stupid, he would instead stop, consider Heather and allow his judgment to decide the issue instead. Yet her lightest touch brought a reaction from his body that he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain so he kept the friendship confined to just that.

The elders pushed harder every day and the MacIver started to press him about his intentions as well. Lately, even Calum seemed to be pushing by making comments like, “How dare they presume to dictate your future for you. Who is the laird, anyway?” What was Calum thinking? He needed a calming influence right now, not another hand feeding the fire.

The elders and the MacIver had to be answered, but they picked a poor day to hell-hack him. Nial had tossed in his bed all night, tormented by his predicament. When he finally fell into exhausted slumber, he had the nightmare again, the same one that came now on too many nights. In the dream he was married to Heather, bound to her by his vow but unable to perform in bed with her as his wife. As the days of marriage passed, he began to catch glimpses of an alluring goddess whose locks dangling to her tempting buttocks were painted every shade of brown from sandy to chocolate to auburn. Her golden eyes beckoned him to sin. He fought temptation as long as he could and even pretended Heather was the goddess and tried to bed her that way, to no avail. His body, so incapable with his wife was tormented with need for the other woman. A darting glance from her golden eyes had him hard as a rock.

By the time his dream ended he had broken his marriage vows and shamed himself by betraying his wife with the goddess he couldn't resist. Nial awoke with a wet spot on the sheets that proved he must not court dishonor by marrying Heather. Friendship was all that could exist between them.

Just before Nial woke from the dream he heard a female voice, imploring him to “look harder, look with his soul.” He didn’t understand what that meant and assumed it was a direction to seek his goddess more diligently. That explanation didn't suit because he looked everywhere for his fate and never more so than now when he could finally put some form to her. He might have thought about it harder but the dream and his daily life had his thoughts and emotions hopelessly tangled.

Heather loved him and her quiet worship soothed his soul. He sought her company more rather than less as the days passed. It would've been kinder to stay away, but when he tried to do that he couldn’t. There was always something he had to tell Heather. Some question he needed her help with or some tale he had to share. He would break his promise to stay away for her own good and go to seek her out instead.

And now, to top it all, this morning at breakfast only the elders and the MacIver were there, and he knew he was in trouble the second he entered the room.

“Laird Maclee,” Carrick began, “you have spent a substantial amount of time with my daughter. It is past time for you to make your intentions plain.”

“My intentions?” Nial’s question was admittedly feeble, but he had been caught in the hell of the nightmare and wasn’t ready to deal with this.

“Laird Maclee, 'tis my understanding that you are contemplating a match with my daughter.” Carrick looked to the elders, “Am I mistaken?”

“Nay, Laird MacIver, of course you are not mistaken. A match between our laird and your daughter would secure the future of both clans and this island.” Eaoseph wasn’t subtle but from what Nial had seen, subtlety vanished with age. “Ye have been spending time with the lass considering a match, haven’t ye, Laird Maclee?”

Now he was caught, and under the joint glare of all the elders had no choice in his reply. "Well, of course. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to be pressed about my intentions so soon.” His statement was blatantly false. He'd expected to be tackled before this and still hadn’t come up with a good way to respond. What he most needed to do was the one thing he couldn’t – discuss it with Heather.

“I find that surprising, Nial. I thought your character more like mine. I expected that you would be decisive, able to make a quick and correct decision and follow through," Carrick said pointedly.

Nial sighed. The man had virtually challenged his ability to lead his clan with that one, and again, he had no choice in his reply. “Normally that would be true. However in this case I must weigh my duty to the clan against my own future happiness.”

“Sir, are you saying that marriage to my daughter would make you unhappy? If that is the case, I assure you my family and I will take our leave and will not trouble you about this matter again. My daughter has a great deal to offer a man astute enough to look beneath the surface. Perhaps I was wrong and you are not such a man.”

The elders’ distress aside, Carrick’s offer would let Nial off the hook, and he nearly said the words that would eliminate the pressure to make him marry Heather. As he opened his mouth to speak, he realized that the same words would destroy their friendship. He couldn’t even explain it to himself, but Heather’s friendship had become important. Maybe, just maybe, it had even become necessary.

“Gentlemen. You will have to allow me to take my leave of you as I will require a bit more time to think this through.” Nial was polite but insistent. He needed time to plan.

“How much more time?” Carrick inquired.

“Tonight. I will have a decision tonight. I will discuss it with Heather when we take our evening walk in the garden after dinner.” The group's eyes lit up in anticipation of a reason to celebrate. He pushed his uneaten breakfast away and left with a heavy heart, feeling pushed into a corner. Instinct compelled him to push back. Nial never cornered well.

He did what he always did when he was deeply troubled. Nial sought the privacy and serenity of his hidden sanctuary. He trudged through the dense greenery of the forest towards the crest of a steep hill where he could sit and contemplate the peaceful tranquility of a loch that lay at the foot of a towering peak of the Cuillin mountains. The loch was hidden from view by the range of the Cuillins, the hill where he would sit, and a dense thicket of trees, at the edge of which, wildflowers grew in abundant private majesty.

This spot was his refuge. In this place alone the pressures of clan business couldn't invade. Here Nial was free of the efforts of scheming women who wanted his body or his power but never his heart or his soul. He'd never seen another person at the hidden loch and held the secret close to preserve the place that rested and recharged his spirit.

Here he would seek his answer, thought Nial as he climbed the small hill. He'd sit and his refuge would tell him whether he must put the welfare of his clan ahead of the call of his heart. When he reached the peak of the hill, a small movement from his left, down below at the loch, drew his notice. Someone was down there. Who?

It was a nude woman. He could only see her back, but even that was glorious. Her rounded bottom looked made to fit his hands. His palms started itching with the need to cup those buttocks. Nial gulped the excess moisture in his mouth that threatened to become drool. He'd have to look up at the rest of her in a moment, but it required a physical act of will to tear his eyes from her long, oh so long and shapely legs to the point where her bottom curved like a ripe apple. Up to the small of her back – no wait, for just a minute back to her bottom. His tongue rimmed his mouth, imagining licking every inch of that bottom before he bit into the fruit. He'd graze there awhile before his tongue would lap up to the small indentation at the base of her spine.

Nial twitched in his seat, conscious that never in his life had he reacted so to the sight of a woman. His body was on full alert. He couldn’t even make himself blink.

Then she turned around. He had been gazing at her butt, so when she turned, his eyes rested on the exotic nest of curls that sheltered her womanhood. His eyes darted up to where her thin waist blossomed into full, extravagant breasts topped by dusky mahogany nipples, hardened from the cold.

She dipped beneath the water again, hiding her beauty. He nearly stood and screamed in outrage, but held back, knowing she couldn’t stay submerged for long in the cold loch. With her exotic figure hidden from his gaze his mind replayed the delights he had surveyed so far and…

Dear Lord! What color had that nest of curls been? Did his mind betray him? Could those curls have been every shade of the brown rainbow? Had he seen sandy locks mingling with golden brown, chocolate and auburn? Did he want that so bad he imaged it?

She couldn't have been submerged for more than a couple of minutes, but they were the longest, slowest minutes in the annals of recorded time.

She stood and he knew her instantly. “Mo cridhe,” my heart, everything within him cried, as he went completely still, gazing at the woman who was his destiny. Her untamed beauty set her apart from any female he'd ever met, and it spoke to everything wild within him. The multi-hued rainbow of brown of her long, wavy hair fell to that rounded bottom he had been studying, and it provided the perfect frame for the golden eyes that tormented his dreams.

What was he doing? While he sat here gawking he could have been closing the distance between them. He jumped to his feet, but the movement was too sudden and drew her notice.

She looked up and met his eyes across the distance. Her golden eyes widened, her jaw dropped and she took off at a run - away from him.

“Wait. Don’t go,” he implored as his fated love reached the ground on the other side of the loch. She grabbed a mound of clothes lying beneath a tree, tucked them beneath her arm, and sprinted towards the woods.

His steps sped around the lake as he ran harder and faster than he'd ever gone in his life. He chased his future and like so many things these days, it seemed to appear only long enough to torment him. Despite his speed, by the time he reached the gap in the trees she'd disappeared into, he saw no trace of her.

He tried calling again. “Come back. Wait, I have to talk with you. Where did you go? Please, please, come back!!”

He searched everywhere, and terrified at least two innocent bunnies and a deer that he heard darting around the woods and pursued. Only when he'd circled the lock in widening loops that took him beyond the sanctuary did he admit the obvious. She'd gone as suddenly, as mysteriously as she'd appeared.

He trudged backed to the castle with a heavy heart, downcast at her flight. Okay, he quirked a smile, if she wasn’t the type of woman who would be terrified at a strange man lumbering towards her as she stood naked in the middle of a loch, then she might be fun for a night, but she wouldn’t be his fated mate. Didn’t she know she belonged to him? Why hadn’t she stopped and waited once she was dressed again? No matter, he would find her and she would be his.

He couldn’t marry Heather.

Now that he'd seen his fate and knew that she wasn't just a product of his libidinous imagination, he would never settle for less. Still, he didn’t want to lose Heather’s friendship. Just the thought shadowed his soul. He was Scot enough to respect his instincts and he was male enough to look for a way to have it all.

So his mind set to work. How to convince Heather that they were not meant to be wed without causing a complete break in their friendship? Heather loved him. That would make it harder. Many women had fallen in love with him, or vowed they had, but he hadn’t concerned himself before. Heather was different. She mattered. He had to end it without hurting her too much. Okay, she'd be hurt to some degree. Avoiding that altogether was impossible. How to lighten the blow and a break her choice?

Heather was constant and would demand fidelity. She thought she had it from him. His active urges would not give him ease to remain celibate this long, certainly not based on friendship. He kept his nighttime meandering to the widow’s bed a close secret because he knew it would hurt Heather.

Sorcha did keep lobbying to return to the castle, and suddenly he stopped in his tracks. Why not let her return? He could arrange to meet outside in the garden a few minutes before his meeting with Heather. If Heather saw them kissing, she would decide he wasn’t constant enough to be her mate. Yet kissing was fairly mild, and could be overcome. It might take some time and some effort, but he would regain her friendship while being fairly sure that she would not allow it to go further. She would think she couldn't trust him with her heart, and she'd look elsewhere.

Nial checked his watch and frowned. He was due at crofter’s court, and there was a full docket this afternoon. There would be no time to see Sorcha and make arrangements. He'd have to fill Calum in and send him over to get her. Sorcha wouldn't refuse any opportunity to cast her lures at him because she kept hoping for a permanent bite.

There was a bounce in his step as he headed inside. He was going to be able to keep Heather and have his true love. The curse wouldn’t mess up his life after all.

The faeries wouldn’t win this one.

CHAPTER SIX

“I need you to talk to Sorcha and invite her here for dinner. Tell her that after dinner she should meet me in the garden. We'll be kissing when Heather comes to meet me. I told the elders and the MacIvers that I'd give Heather my decision in the garden after dinner. She'll see me kissing Sorcha and take that as an answer,” Nial requested, wrinkling his brow at his friend's strange expression. Had he sprouted wings? Why did Calum look at Nial like he'd turned into a fairy godmother?

Calum gaped, slack-jawed, unable to speak.

“Will you help me?” Maclee demanded. "I need words, here."

"Of course. I'll be glad to help,” Calum said after his jaw tightened enough for him to speak. "Sorcha and I will see you before dinner and I'm sure she'll be eager to assist."

Several hours later, Nial found himself strangely nervous as he stood in the blue sitting room awaiting the dinner guests. Calum arrived with the widow who looked like sex on two feet. Sorcha was garbed in a fiery red gown cut so low it barely concealed her nipples. Walking over to greet her, he raised her fingers to his lips and gave them a teasing flick of his tongue as he asked, “Do I understand that you have agreed to help with my little drama after dinner?”

“Indeed. Anything to send the little mouse scurrying away. This should certainly do that,” she said, openly catty.

His eyes shot fire at her characterization of Heather, but given the part she was to play tonight he could hardly argue now. Dangerous as it might be, he would have to tolerate her outrageous conduct on this singular occasion. Calum passed him a goblet filled with red wine, and Nial thanked him absently, his mind already far from dinner. He was envisioning tomorrow when he'd have the freedom to find his dream. As he sipped the wine, he caught amused glances darting between the other two, but before he had a chance to inquire about it Heather entered.

As usual, she looked like a disaster. This time, the sack she wore was of a singularly unattractive shade of lime green, with a bonnet of the same hue. Still, he walked over to greet her, and noticed that the skin on her forearms was a little pink, as though she had been out in the sun.

Heather had spent hours wondering what Nial would say. Surely, he must have figured out by now that it had been she at the loch. His first words dispelled that notion.

“Have you been out in the sun, lass?” He asked.

“I took a rather long walk today and fear I managed to get a bit more sunshine than I bargained for,” she said, aware that she had gotten more than she bargained for and less than she expected.

Glancing at the bronzed tone of her natural complexion, he said, “I am surprised that you suffer much from exposure to the sun.”

“Generally I do not but today I had a great deal more sun that normal,” she said, then wished she had thought before speaking. She didn’t want him to know it was her did she? That was the very reason she hid in the first place. The man was just so attractive, standing there in his navy and green kilt that he interfered with her normally well reasoned thought processes. The navy of the kilt was an exact match for the Maclee blue of his eyes and Nial always looked devastatingly attractive in it, but he surely knew that. Heather had no doubt that women told him so all the time.

Sorcha strolled over to join the conversation, again laying that annoyingly possessive hand on Nial's arm. She brought another goblet of wine, and he looked down, surprised to find his empty. He didn’t recall drinking it.

She took his empty goblet, handing him the full one and stepped behind Heather and leaned over to put the empty one on the sideboard. The movement displaced the neckline of her dress for a moment, and bared her right breast entirely. Nial’s eyes fixed on the sight, and he realized that he was becoming physically affected by it. She winked and stared pointedly at his crotch as she tucked the breast in. Her stare increased the problem so he seated himself on the sofa to hide his discomfort.

Bonnie and Carrick entered and he had to stand to greet them. When he seated himself again, Sorcha sat down beside him. He knew that was a bad idea. Having her close would not decrease his discomfort, but he was loath to stand again, as he had noted a quizzical degree of curiosity in Carrick’s eyes at his demeanor.

Carrick and Heather became embroiled in a lively debate over how many days service a crofter should owe a laird, and Nial would normally have joined right in. Heather glanced at him in surprise at his continued silence. She thought his smile seemed strained.

Maclee sat with his legs crossed to disguise the bulge in his kilt. He wasn’t thinking well, so his legs were crossed towards Sorcha. She crossed hers towards him just as one of the elders reminded Nial that they expected to speak with him after dinner. He was conversing with them instead of paying attention to his sofa mate who used the opportunity to pick her hand up. Behind the shield of their crossed legs, she placed her hand directly over his straining member. Nial nearly came off the sofa.

“Stop it,” he hissed. Sorcha raised her brows and gave Nial's erection a distinct squeeze. He was trapped so she continued to fondle and squeeze until he was forced to address her again.

“Move your hand,” he insisted in a tone that was lower and more gravelly than it should have been.

“It doesn’t sound like you want me to move my hand, Nial,” she insisted playfully, punctuating each word with a measuring squeeze. His erect tarse was throbbing and relief battered at the base of his spine, just a couple of pulses away. He was close to disgracing himself in the parlor of his home in front of assembled guests. He really needed her to remove that hand, although it was the last thing his body wanted.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

“I see that your goblet is empty. As much as I hate to move my hand, perhaps I could fetch you some more wine?”

“I would appreciate that, thank you,” he said, though not from a desire for more wine. He had drunk enough already, and it seemed to be affecting him overly much of late. Tonight he needed to manage events so that Heather would lose interest without coming to hate him but the control he'd spent his life mastering seemed far beyond his grasp.

The dinner gong sounded before the widow returned. Nial should have escorted Heather but although his rampant erection had calmed a bit, it was far from sedate. He lurked behind, using the excuse of speaking with a servant to allow him to enter the dining room last. He followed closely behind old Eosaph, to provide additional cover.

He seated himself at the table and nearly groaned to find himself across from Heather, and between Calum and Sorcha who seemed vastly pleased by the seating arrangement.

Calum asked about Nial's decision in an amusing dispute between a tenant and his brother, ostensibly over ownership of a cow that had belonged to their father, but really over the wife of one coveted by the other. When he looked back down at his plate, his goblet was full again. He shrugged and picked it up.

Things progressed normally through the first two courses, yet strangely the pressure of his arousal kept increasing. It had now reached the point of continuous pain. Nial's unruly libido caused him to spend a fair amount of the meal staring at Sorcha’s breasts, which hardened under his perusal and pebbled against the thin fabric of her gown. Old Seaumas, who was seated across from Sorcha and next to Heather, cleared his throat loudly to indicate to Nial that he was making a spectacle of himself with his pointed and noticeable attention.

The signal from Seaumas hit Nial like an anvil. It prompted him to look at Heather rather suddenly and ask, “So how do you find life on Skye?”

“Since I've never lived elsewhere I doubt I would have a basis for comparison." Heather looked at Nial carefully and asked, "Are you all right? You're wide-eyed and sweating and you seem to be having trouble sitting still. Do you need help or medical assistance?"

Sorcha rolled her eyes. "If you try to help him with this stiff issue, my dear, it'll send him screaming from the room."

Nial saw Heather and her parents darting glances at him, expecting him to berate the widow. He looked at Heather and gave a small, rather helpless shrug before reaching for his napkin to wipe his forehead as he surged up in his seat. He settled down again when he felt Sorcha’s hand on his thigh. She traced small circles that never reached the organ howling for help. He ignored the elder’s frown to look at her intently, beseechingly. She leaned over, far too close, and her pebbled nipples brushed his forearm. Nial clenched his hands into fists, fighting the physical compulsion to touch.

Sorcha whispered, her tone flavored with undisguised amusement, “Do you want me to touch it or do you want me to stop? If you want me to touch, you must make that very clear.”

In response, Nial spread his legs so wide that one bumped into the widow and the other into Calum. Uncharacteristically, Calum made no comment, not even in jest.

“Not good enough, baby,” the widow whispered, flicking out her tongue to his ear under cover of the whisper, and he groaned softly. This time she laughed, but he was too far-gone to think that strange. “If you want my hand there you need to reach under the table and flip up your kilt.”

He sat too still, his distress open and visible even if the cause remained hidden.

Heather leaned forward again, her concern as visible as his distress. “Nial, are you certain you're all right? You seem to be in pain. Are you ill?”

“I’m fine, just fine,” he assured her, in a voice that sounded deep and strained.

Nial ordered himself to keep his hands by his side, and was astonished when he flipped up his kilt. He wasn’t so astonished that he failed to draw her attention to it, whispering to the widow, “I did what you asked.”

She said, “good boy” and reached under the table to find him bare. She touched the head briefly, teasingly, and drew a bead of ecstasy. She looked at him with open contempt as she realized that a couple of strokes would finish it for him and bring him off right here at the dinner table. But that wasn’t the plan.

She withdrew her hand and he bit his lip to keep from asking that she put it back. He glanced over to where an exit to the back garden beckoned like the entrance to Eden. Nial stood and excused himself. As he scurried to the door, keeping his back to the assembly, one of the elders called out something, but his ears rang so loudly that he didn’t hear the words.

Sorcha waited only seconds before leaving by a different door but headed for the same destination. The widow spotted Nial standing with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hands under the skirt of his kilt. She threw back her head and cackled. He dropped his hands and blushed at her catching him like a callow lad tugging on his own reins. Sorcha responded by freeing her breasts, capped by the taut nipples that had stirred him to a frenzy of arousal.

He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself not to look. There was no time. Heather would be here very soon. When he heard movement at his feet, he opened his eyes and looked down to where Sorcha lay nude, with her hands between her thighs where her dark curls were wet and sparkling.

He took a step towards her but stopped. “We can’t Sorcha, not now. Heather will be here soon. Later. Put your clothes back on. Come here and kiss me.”

She shook her head no and put one finger in her mouth, wet it and slowly, oh so slowly, threaded it through her glittering curls to her nether lips. She moaned at the sensation and Nial convinced himself that he'd be fast enough. It didn’t take much convincing, because his thoughts were muddled and throbbing - like his tarse. He threw off his kilt and thrust into her hard and fast and deep.

He knew his plan had gone awry when a female sob echoed through the garden. He looked up as a booming male voice said, “Bloody hell.” There stood Heather, her parents and the elders, gazing through disgusted eyes at him lying naked, pounding into the widow whose shrill laughter sounded demented.

Carrick gathered his daughter close, his rough embrace displacing her bonnet. He put his hands into her hair to press her face to his chest, to hide the vile sight she shouldn’t have to see. The press of his hands dislodged her bun and her hair cascaded down her back. Bonnie looked as if she might faint, and the elders simply looked disgusted.

“Let’s get out of here,” Carrick said quickly, sweeping his wife and daughter away.

Nial balanced on his hands and withdrew from Sorcha, crying the other woman’s name.

“Heather,” he called loudly.

She turned and looked back at him with eyes no longer lit with love. Heather stood in a pool of moonlight that illuminated her multi-hued brown locks and turned her eyes into molten gold, melting as rapidly as his future and his dreams.

Nial's world halted as his heart recognized its mate. Horror froze him for a long moment before he bounded from his knees to his feet. He barreled forward, intending to run after her.

“Heather, Heather, please, stop. Stop. Let me explain! For God’s sake, don’t go,” he cried in a voice so frantic, so urgent, so damned lost that it nearly moved the elders to sympathy.

Heather didn’t slow her pace so he tried to run after her, but instead he ran into a wall of elders blocking his way. Nial tried to push past them, but the old men were imbued with laidir, their strength born of intent to protect the young woman from more pain. Nial staggered backwards. He gazed at the group with his heart in his eyes as everything that mattered, everything he'd sought his entire life, fled through the back gate of the garden.

Heather, whose friendship soothed his soul and the goddess who tormented his nighttime fantasies, were one and the same. How could that be? He'd worked so hard to resist being pushed that he never opened his eyes, or his heart, to see that the faerie fated love he'd sought all his life was right at hand, his for the taking.

So scattered were his wits that it never occurred to him that he stood stark naked before the group until a voice reminded him of his state. “Laird, ye’re kilt?”

Nial scrambled for the covering, thankful the blasted erection that had tormented him to madness was gone. By the time Nial donned his kilt, Mac, the clan healer, was looking closely at the young woman whose silver eyes shot hatred and fury at the elders. Sorcha scrambled to her feet, losing her balance in the process and spilling a small pouch from a hidden pocket in her gown.

The healer scrambled for the pouch as Nial closed his eyes as a barricade against the unmanly tears burning him with eagerness to be free. The crack of a slap echoed nearby, jerking his eyes open.

“Whore! Demon witch! Ye have cost this clan the chance to secure the future for our children and all the people of this island,” Mac’s eyes were wide and his gaze sharp.

Nial advanced in disbelief. No man of the Highlands struck a woman and yet here was one of the gentlest men he knew slapping Sorcha for a second time.

Slap.

The second slap tossed her head back. Nial reached them and held Mac’s hand as it headed down a third time. He looked at Sorcha and saw the pure, undiluted, evil and malevolence shining from her eyes. How had he missed it? How could he ever want anything from this woman?

“Mac? What is the meaning of this?” No matter how evil she was, or how badly he wanted her gone, Nial wouldn’t countenance violence against a woman.

Mac held up the packet. “This fell from her gown. Do ye ken what this is Laird Nial?”

In response, Nial shook his head as he said, “No. No I don’t.”

Mac shook it and fine powder poured out. The strangely colored stuff reeked.

“What is this?” Nial was puzzled.

“Witchcraft and a middlin’ knowledge of herbs. This be a potion she brewed with her own hands and spent hours stirrin’ to get the solid to form, and then hours more chanting evil words and grindin’. It gets stirred in a man’s drink, one like wine to disguise the smell. This here steals a man’s senses from his big head and lures ‘em all to his little ‘un. It makes a man’s need for what is between a woman’s legs stronger than his common sense.” Mac spewed the words, as though they themselves were offensive.

“What?” Nial shouted as images of his recent, uncharacteristic behavior flashed through his mind. Perhaps because his life and his destiny were too much controlled by faeries, he resisted such a fanciful explanation to even partially excuse his own vast stupidity.

“How do you know?” He demanded.

“Ye remember the old friend I just buried? He was of the Clan MacDonald. Do ye recall what happened to the late laird o’that Clan? ‘Twere years back but the elders remember like it were yesterday. The laird became so enchanted w’ a widow that his mind were obscured to all else. He tossed his wife and young bairn out into a snowy night because Una demanded it be so,” Mac said.

“She were a black haired, silver eyed witch like this ‘un here. For the next few days after the wife and bairn were tossed out, the elders searched and spied until they saw Una putting powder into the laird’s wine. Tortured her ‘till she finally showed ‘em how it were made. Witchcraft and a middlin’ knowledge o’herbs, ye ken. They saved the powder and m’late friend’s brother showed it to me just two days ago. It was identical to this here.”

“The laird tossed out the witch. Then he and his clan searched everywhere for his wife and son. Didn’t find ‘em till Spring, when their frozen bodies were discovered just outside the castle walls. The laird took his own life,” Mac spoke each word, staring into the blank silver void of Sorcha’s gaze.

Silence fell, but as the meaning of the tale penetrated, all eyes accused, and the void was replaced by a tempest. Screaming evilly, Sorcha rose, “Does anyone care what became of Una? She was my mother and after she was tossed out she had to become a whore, living her life at the mercy of men. I wasn’t going to do that. I was going to have power.”

Nial spoke to her directly for the only time since this all started, “How did you hope to gain power?”

She lifted one brow, and said, “The faerie flag.”

The Maclee temper, too long absent from the conversation, returned in a rush. Facing Sorcha, he reached into the hidden pocket of his kilt and drew out a small pouch. As he opened it and touched the flag directly for the first time since his own Da displayed it to him as a youth, complete silence gripped the group.

He removed the folded flag from the pouch. “Tried to steal my future for want of this flag, did you, lass? Do you still want it?”

Sorcha stared at the cloth, her greed and ambition as plain as the evil intent in her eyes. She spoke a single word, “YES.”

“Then catch,” Nial said as he tossed the ancient cloth to Sorcha. Both arms extended, she jumped slightly to reach it. She sprang up on the balls of her feet to grasp the coveted object, the key to the power she wanted above all else. She never came down.

The instant her hands touched it, she vanished in a puff of black smoke, as acrid as her soul.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Laird Maclee need not worry about our daughter troubling him again,” Bonnie snapped as her husband eyed her warily.

“How dare he cavort with that strumpet whilst considering a match with Heather? Who does he think he is?” Bonnie turned to Carrick as though he should have the answers.

“Now, love.” Calming his wife had first priority. An irate wife was apt to find other topics for her ire, and since he was here and Nial was not, he would be directly in the line of fire. “It’s not the cavorting so much as the timing that I question.”

Bonnie whirled on him, pointing her finger and poking him in the chest with it, “Don’t you dare try to defend that hedonistic piece of filth. He is nothing to this family, nothing. I will have your word on that this instant.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not trying to defend him. You mistake my point,” his tone was deliberately even. All I’m saying is that I suspect he has intense regret for his actions at this moment.”

“Intense?” Bonnie’s tone was shriller rather than calmer, and Carrick fidgeted in his seat at the warning that the tranquility of his life was about to be disturbed. “He better have intense regret, all right. Not that it will do any good. Let him have his strumpets. We are done with that family.”

“If you say so dear.” Carrick said, covering his eyes with his hand in the guise of wiping his forehead as the words left his mouth. He could lie to his spouse with his mouth, but his bloody eyes would give him away. Naturally enough, after a single shocked glance at the naked laird dancing the reels o’bogie with the black-hearted bitch, the ladies didn't look again. Carrick didn't shock anymore and he did more than look. He considered. They caught Nial with his pants down, true enough. Though he might pretend otherwise, that didn’t really bother him because a man as strongly sexed as Maclee was getting it somewhere, courtship or not. No, he questioned the Maclee allowing lust to rule his judgment. That lapse gave Carrick real pause.

Real pause or not, he knew Nial would be back because he saw the man’s face when he looked at Heather out of that blasted bonnet. He’d never seen a man go down for the third time before, but he saw it today. Yes, Laird Maclee would be back. Would Carrick allow it? Nial had much to answer for and Bonnie's ire aside, only time would tell.

The MacIver darted a quick glance at his daughter. She hadn't said a word since the ordeal began, unless sobs counted. Heather sat completely still through sobs that should have shaken her slender form. She was so stiff that if she'd bent she would have broken.

“Pud? Are ye holdin’ up?”

“Da, I’ve heard people say that at such and such their world crumbled. I thought that was just something that attention-seeking social climbers said. Until tonight, I didn’t know what it meant. How can I hold up when I have nothing to hold onto?” Tears still trailed from her eyes, but the flood slowed to a trickle.

“Sweet, ye’re Mother aside, I think you still have someone to hold onto,” he said, as he chucked his lass beneath her chin.

“What? Who?” Heather asked.

“Nial, love,” Carrick said bravely, aware he just bought himself a ticket to the couch.

“How can you say such a thing? ‘Tis obvious that he has no feelings for me at all.”

“I saw his face, love, and his eyes were open and unguarded for the first time since I’ve known him. The Maclee was devastated, destroyed. He was so beyond thought he was trying to run after you naked, till the elders quite properly stopped him.”

In a bitter tone, neither parent had ever heard from her, Heather said, “Devastated? Hardly. Like as not 'twas all intentional. He wanted me to stop running after him. Well, guess what. He gets what he wants – but then, I hear he usually does. I shall never have anything to do with him again.”

As they pulled into the MacIver keep, Carrick turned to help a stiff Bonnie down before he assisted his daughter. He chucked her on the chin again as he did so and smiled, “Never is a very long time lass.”

She ran up the stairs in tears and Bonnie walked into her parlor and slammed the door. Carrick winced and walked over to the bar. It seemed like a good night to get drunk.

******

Not even a bottle would have helped Heather. She lay awake long into the night, pondering how Prince Charming became the frog. When exhaustion finally tossed her into a troubled sleep, she dreamed of herself as a beautiful and sought after debutante with men begging for her hand. The most desperate suitor was Nial. The most desperate and the most doomed.

As she awoke she considered her dream. She recalled it in absolute detail and it ran again in her mind, but this time her mother's exhortations provided the melody. Heather heard the maternal voice she generally ignored saying, over and over that she would never be a traditional beauty but she could be more. She sat straight up in bed as she recalled one particular conversation she'd paid attention to because she'd been struck by the love shining from Mother’s gaze as she said, “Traditional can be dull. Some very strong, very potent men prefer the exotic, particularly because that reminds them of bedchamber activities. Trust me baby, bedchamber activities are never far from a man’s thoughts. If you can make him want you there, the rest is a piece of cake.”

Afterwards, Heather had brushed off the conversation, as she did most of her mother’s attempts to alter her choices, her manner of dress, her etiquette and her lack of attention to any of it. In light of her dream, she pondered possibilities. For the first time she brushed aside Granny’s homilies and considered whether her mother might be right.

What if?

She could stay here and mildew and allow Nial’s act to destroy her life, or she could take a risk and try something new. When she used her knowledge to treat the sick, she often tried new things. A new quest for knowledge was always exciting whether it involved a period of history, the works of a certain writer, or farming techniques. She believed that if you stopped learning you stopped growing. Why had she never applied that belief to her personal life?

What if?

Her eyes sparkled as she imagined the glory of change. The sparkle sharpened as she even pondered the possibility of a bit of revenge on Nial Maclee. She could return from some far off place beautiful (unlikely, but even passably attractive would be a grand improvement) and with a handsome and beloved man on her arm. The laird might look at her and acknowledge that he lost more than a friend.

Change brought risk, but for her, less of a risk than nothing changing. If she tried she might fail but if she failed to try then failure wasn’t a possibility, it was a guarantee. All living things grew and changed or they dwindled and died. She could do nothing and give Nial the power to destroy her world or she could seize that power in her hands and take control of her future. Viewed that way, she had no choice to make. She'd already given the toad frog as much of her life as she ever would.

Her decision made, she left her room, headed for the breakfast table. Though garbed like the girl who cried herself to sleep, a completely different lass walked into the dining room dressed from head to toe in black.

The unbroken black of Heather's garments notched tension in the room several degrees higher. Bonnie darted an anxious glance at her, “Heather, sweet, are ye all right? I left you alone with your thoughts last night because, well, I thought my company would only upset you and ye had been through more than enough already.”

She heard the anxiety and it saddened her that it would have been true, just last night. She walked around to her mother and leaned in to give her a hug voluntarily for the first time in her adult life. “I love you, Mother. I understand if you have trouble believing that right now, but it’s true. I've had your love and support all my life but I never listened to you. I have a lot to make up for in many ways.”

Bonnie's countenance changed with each of her daughter's words, brightening steadily as though she had dwelled in darkness all her days and saw sunshine for the first time.

The mother turned to the daughter, “Heather?” Her voice was still tremulous, still unsure.

Heather stepped back from the table. “I’ve come this morn garbed for a funeral. Today, we bury Granny. Well intentioned or not, I listened to her words when I should have heeded yours instead. ”Then she ripped off the hideous black bonnet and tossed it on the floor as she said, “Rest in peace, Granny. I’m going to prove you wrong.” Heather spat on the bonnet before she stomped it into the floor.

Bonnie gave a glad cry and joined arms with her daughter. They did a Highland Reel and each step of the dance further destroyed the symbol of Granny’s domination over the life of young Heather. Lady MacIver wrapped her arms around her daughter and Heather returned her mother’s hug.

A world of hope flickered in Bonnie’s eyes as she tilted her daughter’s chin up to look deeply in the golden eyes that already sparkled with the promise of exotic beauty. “So we begin to break through the cocoon at last my little butterfly?”

Heather nodded her answer because the knot of emotion in her throat didn't allow speech.

Bonnie pumped her arms in the air in a victory gesture and called for the servants. “Pack the bags. Quickly. We’ve no time to waste.”

Carrick finally spoke up. “Where are you going, sweet?”

“We shall go to London to stay with my sister,” Bonnie said.

“Why are you going all the way to London? Why not just go to Edinburgh?”

“I know your feelings about the Sassenach. I don’t think you should be there the entire time anyway. You must attend to affairs here and come later to receive the numerous requests for our daughter’s hand. Edinburgh is too close. In London, she will be taken in by their ton because she is the daughter of a laird and the niece of an earl. In that city she will have a new start without old baggage.”

“We’re going to stay with Aunt V?” Heather asked. She had never been to England but Aunt V came for Granny’s funeral. They had written since then and she adored her Aunt’s sparkling refusal to let anything in life keep her down.

“Yes, my dear,” twinkled Bonnie joyously, “you shall conquer England.”

Too afraid that her daughter would change her mind, Bonnie would brook little delay. She sent a messenger off to England to alert her sister that they were en route, and she and Heather were on their way a scant day later.

******

The messenger arrived in London as John and Violet Crandle, the Earl and Countess of Standings, enjoyed a rare luncheon with their son on the patio of their Grosvenor Square mansion. Typically, Peter didn't rise from his rake's rounds until much later in the day. The butler handed Violet the message and she jumped up to dance a Highland Reel around the table, which John and Peter took in stride. Vi lived rather dramatically so John leaned to his grimacing son and, whispered, "The Scot has to emerge sometimes.”

She paused in her reel to take a sip of her tea and brandish the message in front of her like a sword. “See! Do you see? Isn't it glorious? My sister won the battle over her hellion of a mother-in-law at last, at long, long last.”

The earl ventured a question carefully. “Didn’t the old bat keel over several years back? I distinctly recall being dragged there for the funeral." He looked at Peter who'd missed the trip, the lucky duck. "'Twas an odd occasion. Heather and Carrick fought back tears while I caught Violet and Bonnie sharing a champagne toast in the butler’s pantry."

Vi huffed, “Well yes, John she did die a while back but what has that to do with anything?”

“So your Sister finally defeated her dead mother-in-law?”

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Violet beamed at her husband in reward for his understanding.

John remained silent and cast waiting glances at his son. An avowed rake in training, twenty-two year old Peter had little patience for anything other than learning to be good at the game. If it didn’t involve getting under a woman’s dress, or wouldn’t help him get under a woman’s dress, Peter didn’t consider it worthy of a great deal of his time.

“What the bloody hell are you babbling on about, Mum?” As if on cue, the young man demanded in exasperation. He appeared a little puzzled by his father’s look of approval at his disrespectful inquiry.

“Well it’s perfectly clear isn’t it, sweetheart?” Violet demanded, looking at her husband for confirmation. Her husband did something he spent a fair amount of time doing, he smiled and nodded.

“Heather. Bonnie finally won her daughter.” Vi still danced around the table, pausing every few steps to brandish the message.

“Heather,” Peter recalled, “the bluestocking who wears sacks and granny bonnets all the time?”

“Yes. She’s coming to stay with us. We’re going to launch her in society.” Violet’s eyes sparkled, as she began girding herself for the challenge.

Peter suffered a coughing fit as a swallow of tea went down the wrong way. “What do you mean by the use of the word “we” Mother? You’re the great manager. There should be no need for me to be involved at all, should there? I'm not exactly known for my attention to dowdy females.”

“Well of course you will be involved, son. We will need your father’s name, influence and presence and we will need you to squire her about to her first few balls and such. Just until she begins attracting beaus. Then you might have to serve as chaperone a time or two.”

“Attracting beaus? Heather?”

“Yes," Violet said. "She’s going to be a sensation.”

Peter excused himself from the table, and his father asked where he was going.

“To the Club to get drunk,” Peter said.

John pushed back his chair. “I believe I will join you.”

Vi watched the pair flee with an indulgent expression. She knew they both thought her daft. Men, she thought despairingly, the poor dears tended to be so bloody linear and so damnably literal. They lacked imagination enough to look past what was to see what could be, what would be. So they imagined themselves charged with wrangling some soon-to-be former friend into dancing with their sack wearing, bonnet bobbing charge.

Vi knew the girl’s potential firsthand. While in Scotland, one day the ladies happened upon a little loch during a walk. They all stripped to chemises and went in for a swim. Without the bonnet and the sacks, Heather's promise emerged. Oh, not a promise of beauty. That tepid term described the English ideal of a prim and proper miss, like Richford’s get, Lady Jane Seaton, a vapid, blue-eyed, blonde who would no doubt reign as this season’s diamond. No, Heather would never be that traditional. As surely as a rose typified English beauty an orchid exemplified Heather's. The lass's striking allure would be extraordinary and outlandish. The young bloods wanted stodgy and proper only in the parlor. They'd take one look at the orchid and imagine her between their sheets. Given Heather's lineage, the price of getting her in bed would be a wedding ring. Vi would wager next season's clothing allowance that the scamps would queue up to pay that price.

******

As Violet planned her niece’s transformation and debut, and as Heather and Bonnie spent the trip to London getting to know each other all over again, Nial woke up in the same shape he had each afternoon since Heather fled the castle. Irate, hung over, despondent and eager to hit something, he growled at the early afternoon sunshine streaming through the window before he patted his hand around the mattress.

“Damn,” he said when he felt the wet spot.

He didn’t remember the dream from last night, because he'd most deliberately drank enough whiskey to erase any memory of the nightly horror show. He didn’t remember it but the wet spot told him the tribulation took him anyway. What good did whiskey do when the images never left him?

In his dream he gazed through shrubbery to spy on Heather, reduced to peeping by his need to see her even if only secretly. Across the hedge, Heather lay naked in the arms of a man whose face he could never see. Each time, each night, he tried to force himself to walk away. Each time, each night, his will faltered before the exotic feast of her breasts and the delicate pink flesh between her thighs covered by the wild spectrum of brown curls. So he watched her writhe and flush in passion and grow more and more aroused while the bloody thief touched and stroked, fondled and planted himself within the wench who belonged to him and only him.

Throbbing with desire that raged far beyond any physical craving, needing to join with her and willing to do it any way he could, he'd flip up his kilt and take himself in hand. He tugged and pulled and stroked as he gazed upon his love's need tended by some lucky bastard. As she reached her summit, she'd moan, “Ohhh yes, my husband.”

The word would make Nial scream in horror. Then the naked man would stride over to the hedge and pull it back to display Nial standing and stroking the tarse too close to eruption to halt the explosion. So he'd come in helpless streams of ecstasy while Heather and her bloody husband pointed and laughed.

Drunk or sober, exhausted or fresh from leisure, he endured the torment every night.

Disgusted with himself and life in general, he rang the bell.

His squire entered gingerly, carrying a tray. “Was last night any better, sir?”

“Hell no. The same. Just the same,” Nial grouched as he flipped back the covers and strode unsteadily over to the side table where the squire sat the decanter and glass.

“Sir,” the lad’s voice barely exceeded a whisper, “perhaps you need some food. Let me fetch some bread and cheese at least. This,” he said gesturing to the glass in his laird’s hand, “is no way to begin a day, laird.”

Pulling on his kilt, Nial looked up, bearing the expression that showed how badly he wanted to hit something. He growled his reply. “No. Get out. Now.”

“Yes sir, yes sir,” the squire said, escaping on running feet.

Unable to remain in the same room as the sheets that bore the proof of his disgrace, Nial stalked out the door. As he passed the bedchamber two doors from his own, he wondered again where Calum had gotten to. He hadn’t seen the man since the night his future ended. No one else had either. Nial went outside to train with his warriors, and winced in acknowledgment of their dismay at his arrival. These days, the men he trained frequently bore cuts and bruises from his unintentional brutality. He had to hit something, and his warriors were tough and available. The laird's eyes landed on Blake, a stalwart soul who'd appeared today bearing two black eyes. That made him pause. No, he couldn't put them through it this morn. They hadn't healed from the string of yesterdays. Anyway, they weren't responsible for his idiocy. Why didn't he turn on himself?

Since he couldn't train, he’d just end up at the hidden loch again. He trudged towards it, conscious of the warriors flashing happy smiles at each other. As Nial arrived, he recalled that the last time he ended up here he'd cried like a woman. Thankfully, no one saw him. His former refuge had become his altar of despair. He sat on his hill and remembered Heather in the loch. He recalled her beauty and her grace and his innate knowledge that she was his destiny. He felt the press of her body at the fair and his immediate arousal at her touch. He saw her tending little Fergus and perfectly at home supping with the staff who barely spoke to him these days.

Nial was on their side. He couldn’t stand himself either. Some amorist he turned out to be. His fate had been right in front of him and he hadn’t seen her. He'd felt the connection, fought his unwilling arousal at her touch and disregarded all of it as unimportant. Now he missed her company, her smiles, their conversations and debates, their long walks in the garden. He hadn’t been able to make himself go back there at all since that night. Her absence dug a gaping hole that ate away his soul.

His elaborate scheme to keep her friendship while chasing after some fantasy had been idiotic. His stubborn refusal to let the elders back him into a corner had been partially responsible. Mostly though, his greed and cowardice cost him his world. Yes, he argued with the inner voice that howled at such terms. What else could you call a man who wouldn't just sit down and be honest with a friend? What else could you call a fool so damned determined to have it all? Today Heather must hate him almost as much as he hated himself.

Bloody hell, he fell in love with her long before he recognized her as his fate. He loved the woman within almost from the instant he'd spoken with her, touched her, damned communed with her at that blasted fair. 'Twas his gigantic ego that refused to contemplate marriage to "Heather the hag." He should've been man enough to acknowledge that he loved the lass who dwelt in her soul, society and appearances be damned.

How would she look at him today? Might some smidgen of her love for him still survive? He hadn’t been able to face her, but now he saw that he had to try because he had to know. He deserved anything she said but he couldn't just let her slip away. Likely, her father would have him killed but that was better than trying to go on alone. Without Heather nothing lay ahead but an empty road meandering aimlessly to nowhere. The path to the future, whatever future he had left, led through Castle MacIver.

With purpose in his steps for the first time in weeks, he strode towards his horse. He'd ride to the MacIvers and find a way to see Heather. His resolution firm, he made haste and good time getting to their castle. When the butler opened the door, looked at him and said, “Oh dear,” Nial knew he faced a battle.

“I’ve come to see Heather,” Nial said, as he placed a foot in the door to keep the man from slamming it in his face. He grimaced when the door collided with his foot.

“Sir, please don’t ask me to tell Laird Carrick of ye’re presence here. I promise he’ll not take it well.”

“Then don’t tell him. I want to see Heather,” Nial issued the demand, his face as determined as his tone.

“Lady Heather isn't here,” the little man said as his eyes darted again to the door and the foot. "If you'll kindly remove yourself from our ..."

Hefting the little fellow up by his shirtfront, Nial felt him quiver, but he wasn't in a merciful mood. This time Nial's demand was a threat, “I think you're lying. Get Heather down here or tell me which room she is in and I’ll go to her.”

“He’s not lying, Laird Maclee,” said a harsh voice and Nial looked up to see Carrick. He heard a deliberate cough, and saw that six MacIver warriors surrounded him from the rear. It spoke volumes of his preoccupation that he hadn’t heard the men approach.

Even though the other man’s hatred blared at him, Nial would not be deterred from his purpose. It was the only purpose left to him. "Then where is she? I want to speak with her.”

“Why? Do you want her to watch you dance the reels o’bogie with another woman? Wasn’t it enough that she saw the man she was foolish enough to love bare-assed and buried to the hilt in that witch? You need her watching to get it up these days, boy?” Carrick advanced with blood in his eyes. Nial saw the menace and knew he was surrounded, but he couldn’t retreat. He had nowhere left to go.

Nial opened his mouth to respond with typical Maclee bravado, but glimpsed a trace of sorrow and something else in the other man’s eyes that made him do the thing that a Maclee almost never did. He thought before he opened his mouth again. When he did speak, he made the drastic decision to approach the other laird with total honesty.

“Answer me, boy,” Carrick demanded as one of his men pushed Nial forward into the castle and another planted a solid fist in his stomach. After doubling over, he finally caught his breath and managed to stand upright.

Nial looked at the MacIver, disregarded the presence of the clan warriors who would spread the tale far and wide and said, “I can’t get it up at all these days, sir.”

"What?" Carrick shouted the question and held up his hand, halting the punch his warrior had drawn back to deliver. Maclee stood with his hands by his sides, making no effort to defend himself or fight back. Carrick looked deeply into the lad’s eyes. Nial made no effort to hide his expression, and long moments passed as the MacIver evaluated the proud Laird of the Clan Maclee. "It appears that you're less fond of Nial these days than me, which I'd have thought impossible. It seems that you've even wised up enough to regret your pitiful lapse in judgment. You look sorry. In fact, you look downright desperate."

Nial knew he looked all of that and more. He made no effort to mask any of it - his self-loathing, his despair or his sorrow. He didn't even try to hide the love shining from his eyes. He did make an effort to halt his most dangerous delusion but he just couldn't screen out that faint flicker of hope.

“Let him go,” MacIver ordered abruptly, and turned to motion young Maclee into his study. He closed the door and sat at his desk. Then he evaluated the leader of the most powerful clan on the Isle who sat across from him with his soul in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

“So, lad, tell me why I should disregard the grave insult you dealt my daughter and my entire clan and tell you anything about where she is?” Carrick asked, thumping his fingers on the desk. He whispered the rest of the words behind the hand he used to screen his smile. "Actually, I expected you a lot sooner."

Nial watched the fingers thump the desktop as the tiny hope he'd clung to shrank a little more. The question was one he didn’t think he could answer – at least not in any way that would satisfy the other man. Hope was the hardest to abandon, he thought as he gazed at the laird who would soon order his warriors to beat Nial senseless and leave him half dead on the steps of Kilcuillin, or to outright kill him. Nial preferred the latter, because he couldn’t go on without Heather.

The MacIver said nothing more. He thumped and watched and waited.

“I think you should have me killed, sir.”

"Killed?" Carrick repeated the word like he expected a denial. He got an affirmative nod instead. "I should birth a blood feud that would destroy Skye for what reason?"

“Because I deserve it. Because I want it.”

“You want me to have you killed?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Again, I ask, why?”

The MacIver wanted to know why and the answer shamed him so Nial bounded up to pace the room, ending at the window. He faced the glass rather than the other man as he tried to compose himself, but his cowardice appalled him so he spun around to look Carrick in the eye.

“Because Heather loved me and I thought her only a friend. Too stupid or blind to see her beauty, I even proved myself to be so shallow that I thought nothing of the glorious soul that I knew, damn it, I bloody well knew resided within those abominable sacks. I saw her intelligence, her caring and her charm. All of it made me treasure every moment we spent together and long for more and still I wrote her off as only a friend. I hurt her badly and she didn’t deserve it and she will never want to see me again.” Nial clenched his eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to fall. “Mostly, because Heather is the one woman I am fated to love and I don’t want to, no, I can’t go on without her. So yes, sir, I came here to your doorstep so you could kill me and at least save me the disgrace of dying by my own hand.”

Carrick was silent for so long that Nial didn’t think he would speak again. Finally, the MacIver reached towards some correspondence lying on his desk. "My young friend, don't ever forget that while love and hate may be on opposite sides, they share the same coin." Then he picked up the letter on top of the stack and raised a single brow as he handed it to Nial whose hand shook so badly the white paper waved in the air like a flag of surrender.

Nial's legs threatened to buckle when he read Heather's name in the first sentence of the letter to Carrick from Bonnie.

Dear Sweetheart:

Heather and I have been in London for several weeks now, and you would be amazed at the transformation of our daughter. She is a changed woman, and the exotic beauty that we knew full well was there has now bloomed. It is such a joy to see it at long last.

My sister put it well in describing it this way – she is like an orchid in a garden of roses. The young English nobles are unexpectedly fond of orchids, and Heather has been virtually besieged by suitors. They crowd the parlor every afternoon and bring her flowers and write her poetry.

John has had several requests for her hand, but as of yet she favors none of them enough to give her consent, and you know I won’t have her forced. I have promised to let her choose, so I have asked that John not pass along any of the offers until one meets Heather’s approval.

I have new hope on that score. Last night at a ball at his house, Viscount Badgerton persuaded her to take a short walk in the garden. Peter chaperoned, but reported later that he was a few minutes behind them and interrupted quite a passionate kiss in the garden.

We may end up with an English son-in-law, but at least it won’t be that Maclee scoundrel.

All my love,

Bonnie.

When Nial read the last paragraph, he screamed “No” and crumpled the letter into a ball that he threw on the floor and kicked on his way to the door. As he reached the door, Nial realized that Carrick might very well be furious at the destruction of his wife’s letter.

The older laird grinned when Nial twirled back, retrieved the crumpled letter and stood at his desk trying, with little success, to straighten it out again. He worked at it for a couple of minutes, before his eyes fell to the text and he thrust it at Carrick. He ran at full speed out of the house muttering, “I’ve got to get to London. Got to get to London.”

Carrick was still laughing when two of the men outside yelled, “Laird, what should we do with him?” He yelled back, “Let him go but remind him that he needs to pack before he takes off for London.”

Carrick laughed harder when he heard the young man reply, “To hell with packing. I can get more clothes.” He walked to the door where Nial had just mounted his horse at a run, prepared to gallop away to England with nothing more than himself, his horse and the clothes on his back.

Carrick called out again. “Son, you might need money too.”

Nial looked up, muttered an expletive, and headed towards Kilcuillin.

Watching the horse gallop away, Carrick smiled and speculated to his warriors. "I bet that lad will be on the road to London within the next four hours."

Carrick lost his wager. Nial started his journey in half that time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Heather lay in her bed thinking about how drastically her life had changed since her arrival in London. Her English relatives were so lively that it kept her from concentrating full time on her depression and the loss that she tried to pretend she wasn’t suffering. It mostly worked until she fell asleep. Then Nial and the black-haired bitch pranced and pawed each other the whole night through.

Aunt Violet ran her house with flourishes of drama and emotion and yet somehow managed everything with the precision of a general. Uncle John was more reserved, but showed flashes of humor that let Heather know he felt the peace he got from allowing his wife to have her way was well worthwhile. Peter was four years older and a blend of both of his parents. He was a handsome scamp who reminded her too much of the one from Skye she was trying to forget. Vivian was only a year older and had become Heather’s confidante and indispensable tour guide through the maze of social intrigue that constituted London’s ton.

Aunt V had a modiste awaiting the arrival of their carriage, and refused to even take her shopping for a new wardrobe until she looked fit to leave the house. Less than a day after her arrival, Heather succumbed to tears at the sight of herself wearing the first of the new dresses. A classic yellow chemise dress, the garment had a rather low neckline that she modestly stuffed with a fichu. So simple an outfit, yet what a difference it made.

She was not allowed to look at her reflection in the mirror until the maid finished her hair, which was gathered in a loose French knot, with several strands dangling around her face and neck. Heather held herself tensely, refusing to believe the murmurs of approval. When she was dressed, tears streaked her mother’s face as she turned her to face the mirror.

“My darling butterfly. I told you, exotic beauty. Just look.”

Heather did look. “Is that really me?” She didn't believe that she actually looked like the woman in the reflection. The gown showed off her trim figure and flattered her overly abundant udders. The color made her skin look golden rather than olive. Her hair was still odd, and her eyes were still cursed, she thought.

Aunt V insisted they toast the event and her eyes were moist as she kept insisting, “Heather will knock ‘em dead”.

“My lass shall have her choice of grooms and will end up with a much better match than the unfaithful bastard in Skye,” Bonnie grumbled.

The mention of Nial sobered her, and Heather asked for a few minutes alone. She shamed herself by spending them wishing that she had looked so for him. Then, as she always did, she made herself bring back the picture of him buried inside the witch. She lectured herself that she’d had a lucky escape in having his true character revealed before any vows bound them.

Despite the horrific picture and stern lecture, her traitorous heart persisted in remembering their walks, their conversations and how solicitous he had been of her. But never once had he looked at her with fire blazing from his eyes as he had the other woman. Had Nial married the evil witch yet?

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and twirled, “How would he see me now? Would he look at me in passion, at last?” Her whispered words went unanswered, and she put on a smile as she left the room telling herself that whatever he was doing didn’t matter. She never wanted to see him again. She couldn't trust him with her heart or future so she’d best move on to find another and get to know him well before she made any promises.

To that end, Heather faced the ton at the Badgerton ball. Despite Aunt V’s tutoring, and Viv’s promise to be there for her, she was all but shaking with nerves as they stood on the steps waiting to be announced. She turned to Viv. “The room is lovely. All the carnations and ferns put me in mind of either a Scottish garden or a jungle, although one is much the same as the other, I’ve no doubt. Well, they’re much the same except that in one the sly rascals walk on two feet rather than four.”

“They spent a pretty penny on all the candles too, but Lady Badgerton will spare no expense in her quest to get her son married off,” Viv said.

“My, it’s crowded. How does anyone dance?” Heather asked.

“A ball is not a success unless it is a mad crush,” Viv said, smiling at her cousin’s excited anxiety.

“Well, this one is doing very well then,” Heather said.

They entered to greet their hosts, the dowager Viscountess, her daughter, and Viscount Badgerton. The latter was very handsome in a blond, green-eyed English sort of way. After the introductions he took Heather's hand and daringly kissed it without it being offered. He responded to her, “Good evening Viscount Badgerton” by insisting that she “call him Geoff” and murmuring that he would hope for a dance later. He eyed her Uncle John as he made the latter statement, but her Uncle was noncommittal.

As they walked away Uncle John muttered, “Cheeky little bugger.”

Apparently, she was correct in assuming the man had been too forward. However, Viv gaily twirled her away from her parents at the first opportunity and whispered, “You made your first conquest a big one, cousin."

It turned out that the Viscount was much sought after by the young ladies who believed his reputation as a “rake” made him a challenge. She and Viv made their way over to a group of young ladies that Viv knew. One of them, Lady Jane Seaton, reminded Heather too much of the catty girls at home who laughed at her and didn’t even bother to do it behind her back.

Jane raised a brow at Heather, saying, “I am considering Geoff, you know. It’s just hard to choose a husband from among so many anxious to be chosen.”

Heather gathered that she had just been warned away from Geoff Ramsgate. In her opinion, if he was dangling after the catty little blonde, then he deserved what he got.

A few minutes later, Jane turned to her again, "It appears that many admiring glances are being cast your way. Of course, the men know so little of quality. Tell me, Heather, is your dress a copy of a Parisian Original?”

In defiance of the pale hues normally worn by debutantes, Heather's gown was of rich gold. She wore a silk sheath underneath, covered by an overdress of lace. Her elbow length sleeves were gold as were her gloves. Her hair was piled atop her head, and she wore pearl earrings that belonged to her Mother. The lines were simple, but she thought the dress far more elegant than the layers of flounces and bows worn by the other girl.

“Why no, Lady Jane, it is a Virginia Vane original. Don’t tell me you prefer French designers instead of the fine London artisans?”

That left Jane sputtering, as the political climate with the French was currently very unstable and the inquiry questioned her patriotism.

Across the room, two men watched the ladies converse. Mark Braden, Lord Ricefield, a long time running mate in environs more and less civilized than this one, addressed his host. "You've shown no interest in a proper female since your father kicked it and you found yourself stuck with the title and the job of acquiring a respectable wife and heir. What female has changed your attitude so suddenly?"

Geoff gestured with his head. "She's there, with Jane. The lovely, luscious minx clad in gold. Gad, Mark, every ton female I've met so far has been vapid, self-centered, and cut from the same mold. If I must, mind you, must look at the same female over breakfast for forty or fifty years, then it will have to be one who is something more, something different that those I've had met thus far."

Ricefield smiled cynically. "They're all from the same mold. What makes you think this one is different?"

Badgerton shrugged and looked a little abashed. "Nothing, you'll accept, cynic that you are. 'Twas a feeling when she walked through the greeting line and I kissed her hand. Everything inside me paused. Oh, I'll grant you that she's not a typical beauty, but something about her rainbow locks makes me want to spend time sorting through every shade – with my teeth. Eventually, I'd even get to the hair on her head."

Now Braden snorted. "Improper interest in a proper female. That, I understand. That, I believe. I hate to burst the sudden bubble of sentiment encasing you, but I'd guess that when you speak to her, you shall discover that only her appearance is different. Pick one, wed her, and find a mistress whose hair you want to sort."

Just then Heather decided that she had already spent more time than she wished with the little cat. She turned and left before she broke one of the multitudinous rules that Aunt V had spent days drilling into her, reviewing with her, repeating and reviewing some more. She drifted away from the group, and walked to the back of the room to admire a view of the river through the large window, and to enjoy the cool breeze. She did feel better just looking at the river since she had been surrounded by water for her entire life.

Geoff winked at his friend and excused himself. "I believe I shall have the chance to begin my study right now." He strolled across the ballroom with unusual impatience. “We meet again Lady Heather. Tell me, is the view out the window that engrossing or do you find our ball that boring?”

She raised a brow and said, “Both, I’m afraid, my Lord.”

He moved a step closer. “Both? So you find this glittering that my mother has worked so hard to arrange boring? Say it isn’t so, Lady Heather.”

“With apologies to your Mother, sir, thus far I find this gathering to be a group of people who dress up to get together so that they can see what everyone else is wearing, and to scrutinize everyone’s dance partners. Then they point out that their attire is much prettier and their dance partners are much more handsome or high-ranking or preferably both. So far ton parties seem to be an excuse to gather, gossip and denigrate others.”

Geoff threw back his head and laughed. “Bravo, Lady Heather. Such honesty is as rare in these quarters as the insight behind that comment. But alas, as a dutiful son, I must do what I can to better entertain you at Mum’s little gathering. Will you do me the honor of dancing?”

They took the dance floor. Looking at the other dancers, Heather became conscious that Geoff held her much too close. She tried to insert distance between them discreetly, but that didn’t work. “Back,” she growled and he did step back - at least slightly.

"Have none of the others held you close, Heather?" Geoff asked, casting assessing eyes at the overly attentive male eyes following her trim figure.

"I've not danced yet, sir," she replied.

"Well, when you dance again, be sure you allow none of them to do so."

She cast a wary eye at him, more than a little pleased that he seemed to care about her dancing with other men. She generally found herself foisted off like a maiden aunt. Considering his jealous comment, she smiled and asked him about his family. They conversed about his new responsibilities and her love for her native country. As she mentioned her Isle of Skye the passion of her love for her home’s mountains and rocky coastline lit her gaze.

He pursued the subject until she spoke at length of it, calling it “The magnificent, mystic, magical Isle of Skye”.

“That is quite a lot for one Island to live up to. Why magical?”

“Because of the faeries of course. Good sir, ‘tis well known that the Shining Folk inhabit the Isle of Skye. We even have a faerie glen where they hold gatherings. Intent on the conversation, she blundered into the one area she never intended to speak of to anyone. “And there is actually a clan with faerie in its blood lines. They possess a faerie flag that will protect the clan in the event such is needed.”

“Tell me, dearest Heather, what clan has such a close association with the faeries?” Geoff suspected that could be the source of her unease.

Her response was brief and to the point. “The Maclees”.

"One of them hurt you," he murmured but she pretended not to hear. He didn't pursue the subject.

At the end of the dance, they stood alone for no more than a moment before Bozworth Harrison, the Duke of Sedgewick approached. He was known generally as Sedgewick, but his friends called him Boz. The debutantes and their mothers considered the duke the top prize in the marriage sweepstakes and did so each season. He showed no inclination to the altar and that only made his allure stronger.

******

Boz watched Geoff glare at every man casting admiring gazes at the beautiful brunette. With a broad grin, he tilted his head and surrendered to the multiple layers of impulse prodding him to hurry to the couple's side. Part of it arose from his sense that Geoff, who virtually blackmailed him into attending this party, suddenly wished him to Hades – or at least to the other side of the room. That being the case, naturally Boz made haste to interrupt his friend’s conversation with the glorious newcomer to their tight little set.

“Geoff, please introduce me to your lovely companion,” Boz requested, conscious that his friend had to comply or be considered an ass of the first order by the lady. He never missed an opportunity to bedevil a buddy.

“Certainly,” Badgerton said with an expression that screamed “back off” belied by his polite words. “Boz, this is Lady Heather MacIver of the Isle of Skye, Scotland. Heather, this is His Grace, Bozworth Harrison, the Duke of Sedgewick.”

“An honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Heather said with a little curtsey. She rose and proffered her hand, and Boz bent to kiss it just a bit too quickly.

“Heather,” Geoff chastised, “it is completely improper for you to offer your hand to be kissed in such a manner.”

The spectacle of his longtime companion in debauch lecturing the lady upon propriety caused a violent twinkle that Boz knew Geoff didn’t appreciate. Boz literally bit his tongue against the hearty chuckle that threatened to emerge and only made the effort because he knew Geoff would appreciate that even less.

“Viscount Badgerton, if I recall correctly you grabbed my hand and kissed it when we were introduced. Why is it proper for you to kiss my hand and improper for His Grace to do it?” She challenged his edict openly and her ire made her eyes spark with passion. Oh yes, Boz thought suddenly, Nial knew this one. At the thought, that inner something shifted again. Ah yes, this must be the other part of his impulse to hurry to the couple.

“Because,” gritted Badgerton from between clenched teeth, “Sedgewick is a rake and a rogue. You should avoid him at all costs.”

Her eyes glittering, she said, “A rake and a rogue like you, my lord? Then perhaps I should avoid you as well.”

Geoff turned to her in a fury of passionate rage and began his words by advancing as he said, “Bloody hell, Heather…”

The duke decided to play white knight and protect his friend from himself. Badgerton hovered at the verge of forgetting their august company and kissing the lady soundly, publicly and within an inch of her life. Entertaining though that might be, the instinct of a gentleman bred in him for generations compelled him to protect the lady from being so publicly compromised.

There was something else too, something Boz acknowledged to himself only with great reluctance. It was the ability that family lore said had been bred in the lines from the long ago marriage of a cousin to a faerie. It allowed Sedgewicks to sense what they couldn’t know. Long and hard knock lessons from life had taught him that whenever that sixth sense emerged, it was to be considered and obeyed.

The lady accepted and took Boz's arm. Geoff leaned close as Boz walked by, saying, “Tread carefully here lest I forget our years of friendship”

“I think we should all tread carefully here, my friend,” the Duke replied in a low tone, before taking to the dance floor with the lady. As he did, he realized that he felt a connection to her, but oddly, it wasn't attraction. That was strange, for he was above all else a ladies’ man, and Heather was a unique female, beautiful in some outrageous and over-the-top fashion. He remembered the comment he intended to make earlier and the sudden ping from his pesky sense. He decided to probe.

Badgerton hadn’t mentioned the connection to Skye that Sedgewick had because while it was hardly hidden, it was hardly well known either. Come to think of it, Boz had not had occasion to discuss it with the other man.

“I have been to your Isle of Skye. I've reveled in the beauty and magic of your famed faerie glen.” She looked up, startled at this unexpected piece of information. Boz held her eyes as he made his next comment. “I have even beheld the faerie flag possessed by my kinsmen, the Maclees. Do you know my friend and cousin, Laird Nial Maclee?”

She stumbled in the steps of the dance but he covered for her easily, prodded by that inner sight to expect the lapse. Her golden eyes filled with liquid pain, longing and loss underscored by love, nearly hidden, but still pulsing, still present. Boz saw it all in the tiny fraction of time before she shuttered her gaze but with his extra sense, he'd have known it even if her eyes stayed closed.

She gathered her composure but her voice remained unsteady. “Nial? You know Nial?”

Her sentence broke when she said the name and in her tone he perceived a fire of rage that hadn't yet consumed the love hiding beneath the hate. She had not quite been able to prevent a single tear that fought free of one lovely golden eye, and he reached up with a finger to wipe it away.

He answered almost tenderly. “Yes, Heather, I do. He is my cousin but more importantly he is my friend. I sense that he has hurt you somehow. Would you like to tell me about it?”

She was shaking her head no, fiercely as the dance ended.

Geoff didn't wait for them to leave the floor. He strode over, brushing dancers aside to get to Heather. He put his arm around her waist when he arrived, and Boz fought a strong urge to tell him not to attach himself here. Sedgewick sensed trauma and turmoil and heartbreak, but whose he couldn’t say for sure and so he remained silent as his friend swept the girl into the next dance without even waiting for him to leave the floor.

Badgerton was a veritable font of barely controlled passion, and Boz’s instinct prompted him to provide the control that his friend would either be unable or unwilling to exert. He kept a close eye on the pair and wasn’t surprised to see them dancing in ever widening circles that neared the patio door. As Geoff glanced at the door and then furtively around him, Boz looked for Peter Crandle. He found the lad standing in the circle of six or seven young lords who tended to surround Boz at gatherings, basking in the reflected infamy of his rake’s reputation. He had never once before joined the group of his own free will, but did so now.

Boz pulled young Peter aside, asking, “Aren’t you chaperoning your cousin tonight?”

“Yes, but I was only taking a moment with my buddies. What trouble could she get into in such a short time?” He asked, flushing at being caught off duty from his post.

“Badgerton has taken her to the terrace. I think you should follow, immediately.”

“Why would you of all people care about my cousin’s virtue?”

“Never mind that now,” Boz avoided the question, since this was assuredly a new role for him. “You should check the interior of the maze, near the folly first.”

Peter sprinted away to follow the couple, but his progress was impeded by the sheer volume of the crush in the room and on the dance floor, as well as by several friends who tried to hail him.

******

Heather followed her host through the patio door, breathing deeply of the crisp air before she stopped and pulled away when he began descending the steps. "Where, exactly, are we going, my lord?"

“You were gazing so longingly at the garden that I thought you might like to see it first hand,” Geoff replied.

Thinking that she'd prefer most environs to the judgmental climate indoors, Heather followed her host. She preferred the wild beauty of Scottish gardens but acknowledged that the formality and order of this English version had a certain charm, if only her companion would slow down long enough for her to see it. She paused beside a marble carving and Badgerton took her hand, nearly dragging her along.

“For goodness sakes, Lord Badgerton. I just wish to admire the statue. Aren’t we here to see the garden? If so, you should let me see it.”

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Please. There is something astonishing that I simply have to show you.”

When they arrived at the center of the maze, Heather was a little out of breath and a lot dismayed. They stood in a confined area with a view of the backs of two statutes, and several scattered pails and gardening implements half hidden beneath a stand of shrubs.

“What is so astonishing here?”

He drew her close. His lips lowered towards hers as he said, “The passion I want to express to you, sweet, astounds me more than I can express with words. I must kiss you.”

She tried to avoid his mouth. “My Lord, please. This is most improper.”

He ignored the attempt to evade him and drew her close to whisper, with his mouth only an inch away, “No formality. Say my name, Heather.”

“Geoff, don’t. This isn't proper.” Heather’s words softened, as the thought flashed through her mind that this man had passion in his eyes and he was looking at her, Heather the Hag. How would his kiss feel?

Badgerton's mouth met hers as he whispered. “Improper, yes, the way I feel about you is highly improper, scandalous even.”

He took her mouth possessively, demandingly. It was her first kiss, which he couldn't have known. She'd never confess to being so very unwanted to the first man who didn't share that sentiment. He seemed to want her very much but that was something else she couldn't share with him. She didn't feel desire or even a rush of warmth. What she felt was an absence of air and a sensation of being choked. When his embrace tightened she started feeling a lot of something, but unfortunately it was fear and it paralyzed her for an instant. Then she balled her hands into fists and began pounding his chest while she jerked away, or tried to. He kept pulling her back.

"Unhand my cousin this instant, you ass," said Peter, as he charged into the alcove.

The familiar voice promised safety and rescue and Heather ran to Peter, grabbing him like a promise of salvation she might lose if she didn't hold on tight. Her clothing was askew, her hair was rumpled and her face was wet with tears. Peter held her against his chest while she cried.

“Badgerton, get away from my cousin and stay away until you learn the difference between a lady and the sort of companion you’re more accustomed to. Got it?”

Geoff's eyes were wild and he panted still as he paused beside Heather. “I am sorry, so very sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just got carried away and I apologize. Please say you forgive me.”

Peter started guiding her away before she raised a tear strained voice to say, “I'll be okay. Just promise that you'll behave better if we speak again and I'll try to forget this.”

Badgerton yelled after them. “Peter, I will do the honorable and wed her. Wait, Peter-if I've compromised her…”

Looking at the renowned rake like he'd just grown a third eye, Peter replied, “For God’s sake, man. Get a hold of yourself. I’m not that much of a prig. It was just a kiss.”

Peter didn’t try to take her back inside the gathering. He took her around the side to get her pelisse and leave a note for his family before he sought their coachman. A short while later after her maid had helped her change to her nightclothes and had brought her a sherry “for her nerves,” Heather lay in bed contemplating the experience.

Geoff’s kiss frightened her with its demand and urgency. Still, she should have felt something more than sadness beyond the fear. She'd never confess to a soul that her first kiss made her feel so dirty that she scrubbed her lips nearly raw as soon as she got home. She fought the thought with all of her might, but it finally overcame her will to emerge.

What would Nial’s kiss have felt like?

She squelched the question but when she fell asleep her dreams overcame the barrier she erected during her waking hours. In those dreams she was being kissed again, insistently and with passion. But when the man with her lifted his face to stare into her eyes it wasn’t Geoff. She wasn't afraid and she wasn’t fighting him off.

It was Nial, and she kissed him back with demand and urgency and more, so very much more.

CHAPTER NINE

To say he rode hard to London would be a vast understatement.

Nial rode a horse and led two others. Along the way, when the ridden horse tired, he stopped and left it near the house of some poor farmer – God forbid the tired horse should slow him down. He spared neither the animals nor himself. He rode like his life depended upon it, because he knew that it did.

In every clop of the horses’ hooves Nial heard, “another man, kissing another man, another man,” until he thought he'd go mad. When he made it to the outskirts of London it was late morning and he'd been riding non-stop, with brief pauses to relieve himself only when nature’s demands grew unavoidable. His meals consisted of apples stuffed into his saddle at Skye and water from a canteen, which he had on horseback. The only time he rested had been on the boat ride from Skye to the mainland of Scotland, and he'd been so frantic then that the Captain threatened to throw him overboard.

It was little wonder that the citizens of London who were about that late morning looked at Nial askance. More than one husband drew his wife to him protectively, and several mothers gathered their children around their skirts. He didn't much resemble the ladies' debonair darling. He looked more like one of the outlaws from America’s Wild West pictured on the covers of the dime novels. When he pounded on the door of Sedgewick’s London estate, the butler tried to slam it in his face while screaming to the household for someone to, “Alert the watch.”

At the breakfast table with his mother and younger siblings, Boz heard the butler’s alarmed cry but smiled as he assured his family that all was well. He yelled out to the butler and the two footmen trying to restrain the intruder, “If the outlaw wears a kilt, let him come in.”

Seconds later a filthy, disheveled, and yet strangely elated Nial burst into the dining room. His cousin’s young siblings surrounded him when he entered, squealing his name. He returned their enthusiastic hugs, after which the dowager duchess rose to be greeted, wisely extending her hand in lieu of a hug. After casting an assessing eye at her nephew by marriage's begrimed state, she promptly escorted her children upstairs to change.

Nial didn’t await an invitation. He lurched to the breakfast table and seized his aunt’s abandoned juice, downing the glass in one draw before he stuffed a sausage in his mouth. Sedgewick surveyed the normally debonair man with open amusement. The Scott was quaffing his second glass of juice and chewing his fourth roll before he slowed down enough to note his cousin's grin. He flushed and slowed his chomping to mumble, “Sorry.”

Boz quirked a brow and asked, “Bloody hell! Didn’t you stop to eat, or change or,” he wrinkled his nose, “bathe? I presume you at least stopped to rest?” At the negative nod, Sedgewick broke out in laughter.

“Well, damn, cuz, sit down and eat. You’ve arrived before your baggage. After breakfast you can have a bath, and you can borrow some clothes after a nap. They are preparing your room now and…..”

“No,” Nial said between hurried bites.

“What do you mean no?”

“Let me back up. I thank you for the hospitality and the clothes which I will accept. But I don’t have time for a nap.”

You do have time for a nap. None of the entertainment will start until tonight. I assume you’ve come to try to make amends to Heather for whatever asinine screw up caused her to come here and launch herself on the marriage mart?”

Maclee growled, leapt up to seize the other man’s shoulders, shake him and say, “You better not have laid a paw on my Heather, and what the hell do you mean the marriage mart?”

Only the Duke’s loud laughter caused the footman entering the room to refrain from jumping to his employer’s aide.

"Calm down and have some tea and finish eating. You look like you’re coming off a three-day bender. I have met YOUR Heather. I have danced with YOUR Heather. Although she is a nice piece – sit DOWN- my Sedgewick sixth sense was in full operation so no, I had not one lustful thought nor committed one improper deed. You can stop glaring at me now,” Boz said with a raised brow and an ironic inflection produced by that single word.

'My' Heather said the man who too-frequently threw the various women dangling after him towards Boz to buy a few moments peace. That word told him that Heather’s was the lure his cousin would bite and hold without her ever having to dangle. Yes, his sixth sense had been as frustratingly right as always. The girl was his cousin’s faerie fated forever and the business with Badgerton promised to be messy and unpleasant all the way around.

“Now, it appears that you’ve assuaged the worst of your hunger and thirst. Although you assure me you are somehow not exhausted after breaking all records I know of for travelling time between Skye and London, you should still go upstairs to bathe and rest a bit. My footman advises that your room and bath are ready and a change of clothes is laid out – luckily we are of a size. I‘ll have my man of business discreetly scout about and advise us where the fair Heather will be tonight. When you are ready and refreshed, I’ll be in my study attending to correspondence and business matters.”

“Thanks. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate your help. I’m going to need it,” the laird said, knowing that without his cousin’s title and consequence, he'd never pull this off.

Both men stood and Nial gathered his cousin close for a hug.

Sedgewick said, “I am sure of one thing. There is a story here.” Maclee nodded in response. “I surely look forward to hearing it.”

At that, Nial left and went up to his chamber. He bathed and changed but saw little point in trying to rest. He should be exhausted, but something within him was elated to simply be in the same city as Heather. She was here. Boz saw her. He had to hear about that, had to hear all of it. He must know what obstacles stood between him and getting Heather back.

He tried to stay upstairs for a bit longer, but then he recalled the letter and the mention of Badgerton, and that Heather had been kissing him. Kissing him passionately. Once he remembered that, he couldn't wait. Nial didn't exactly run downstairs but he walked very, very quickly. At every hurried footfall along his path to the study, he heard, “another man, kissing another man, another man, kissing another man.”

Nial almost managed not to burst into the room.

“I see you really rested. You’ve been upstairs almost an hour.”

He'd always been close to his cousin and there was little they did not share. He seated himself on the sofa and threw his head back. “I couldn’t sleep. Had I slept, I would not be rested. I have nightmares that take my sleep whenever I do manage to find it these days.”

Thinking of the admissions to come and anticipating the plea he'd have to make for his cousin's help, his eyes landed rather longingly on the small bar in the corner. It wasn't a confessional, but a dram of liquid courage would help loosen his lips even if it wouldn't ease his stubborn pride.

The humor left Sedgewick, and although 'twas early, he poured them each a glass of the Scots Whiskey he kept on hand and sat in a chair across from the sofa.

“Tell me what this is all about. What has you so twisted and tangled?”

Nial nodded and fiddled with his fingers. “Before I do, tell, me, you've seen Heather?”

“Yes. Several times.”

“How is she?” Nial's expression made it clear that the question wasn’t casual. He looked like he waited for the Angel Gabriel to pronounce whether or not he could enter the Golden Gate.

“She is well, although there is a sadness behind her eyes,” Boz replied.

“I put that there,” Nial said.

“So I gathered.”

“You spoke of me?” The hope in Nial’s voice battled with the wariness in his eyes.

“Only briefly, but I sensed that you'd made her very unhappy. She seemed sad, resentful and filled with something akin to hatred.” Nial clenched his face at the statement, girding himself to withstand the expected blow, trying to remind himself of Laird MacIver's statement about the other emotion that shared that coin. Still, the color drained from his face and he sank into the sofa.

Boz watched him as closely as a physician but Nial knew his cousin saw far more than any leech for he evaluated with that extra sense of his. After a few moments, Boz leaned forward, sat his glass down, cupped his hands and stared at them instead. "I hadn't intended to involve myself in this matter because Geoff is also my friend. I just might have to re-evaluate that decision. Tell me everything.”

Nial told him all of it. Although he related Sorcha’s part in the sordid tale, he didn't emphasize it. When Nial finished, Sedgewick gave a tight smile. "Most men would happily shove most, if not all, of the blame on the witch and her wicked potion, but not you. No, you blame yourself. Hell, it sounds like you hate yourself."

Nial shrugged. "The bitch witch embodied pure evil. She had no conscience and no concern for anyone outside her own skin. Perhaps," he took a long swallow of his drink and then circled the glass with his finger, "she and I were kindred souls. Maybe I tossed her the faerie flag to exorcise my own demons."

"You're nothing like her," Boz said. "She was an attractive wench you noticed before she dosed you with anything. You thought her to be another in the long line of women who throw themselves at your feet. When you were younger, you took because it was available and that was reason enough. This one artificially spiked your lust and drugged you into desiring her. That should be excuse enough for your behavior, shouldn't it? Once Heather hears the full story, and you turn your damned charm on her, isn't she bound to forgive and forget?"

"No," Nial said, downing the rest of his drink in a long swallow.

"What make you think she wants more than the prize? How do you know she's not just another one who imagines a target on your tarse with her name on it?"

"She's nothing like that. She knows me," Nial said, tapping his chest with his fist, "me. Not the stupid wrapping, but rather the person who wears it. She saw the man inside the mask and loved me anyway. And I..." He took a deep breath and lurched for the bar, pouring another drink and holding the glass with both hands.

"And you've spent a lifetime choosing only the prime dishes on the menu. So you took one look at the hag and wrote her off in any romantic sense. You decided that she wasn’t good enough for you and so you never looked below the surface, even after she became the only female you've ever considered a friend. In making that judgment, you committed the same offense as all of the women whose pursuit you disdained as selfish and false." Boz nodded, as though hearing an inner voice confirming his analysis.

"Like I said earlier, I proved myself to be a kindred soul to the bitch witch. How can I expect her to forgive me for that?"

"Okay, I'm sure it upset her to see your wand making magic with the widow. But you're right, that's not the seat of this dilemma. It would piss her off but it wouldn't give her that sad, lost expression. She saw the package but kept looking until she reached the person and then she wanted the man. You saw the package and reached the person but rejected the woman. For that, she will have to forgive you but she won't do it until you first forgive yourself. But you're nothing like Sorcha. It doesn't sound like she'd walk across a room out of concern for another person. You've crossed a country."

"I've crossed nothing with motives as noble as you attempt to ascribe. But, yes, I've crossed a country to get to her. I'd cross hell to claim her and forsake heaven to keep her." Nial faced his cousin with hands curved into fists at his side.

“You mentioned a letter from Lady MacIver that spoke of Badgerton kissing Heather in the garden at his parent’s ball,” Boz said.

“Badgerton the bastard. Yes, I hear he's been pursuing her. I shall end that. I shall end that right away,” Nial said, his tone threaded with unmistakable vehemence.

“It may not be as easy as you think. In a one-dimensional world where there was only black and white, you'd be the good guy and he'd be the bad guy and I would know who to root for. But the fact is, Geoff Ramsgate is a friend of mine and he is a good person. I believe he genuinely cares for Heather and I am convinced he will come up to the mark for her.”

“Heather is mine,” said Nial. His claim was firm and unshakable.

“There are others, but from what I've seen Geoff is your biggest competition. It won’t be an easy match for you, because he has a great deal to recommend him. In addition to which, he never shoved her aside or betrayed her.” Boz wasn’t one to pull his punches, and his cousin should know what he faced.

Maclee leaned forward on the couch and put his empty glass down on the occasional table. He sensed that his kinsman still hadn’t chosen sides and intended to stay out of the fray. Nial couldn’t have that, for he was certain he would need all the help he could get.

“You say that Badgerton cares for Heather. Well, let me tell you how I feel about her. I know you've not yet been in love and somehow believe that you are too logical for it to ever happen to you. I promise you that it will happen because you care too much for it not to. Maybe you won’t understand or believe what I am about to tell you today. But someday, when you least expect it, you will fall madly in love and then you will know that I told you the truth.”

Nial jumped to his feet and headed for the window, unable to face his friend as he bared his soul in a manner that the other man would see as a weakness. “Heather is my fate and the key to my happiness and my future. I love her. I would kill for her and I would die for her. I would give my life and my soul for her happiness or welfare and consider that I had made the better bargain.”

“Boz,” he turned to face the other man. Although his cousin was not a full-blooded Scot, he would understand what Nial was about to say. He would know 'twas an admission the laird could make to no other person on earth. “I'd give up my clan for Heather. I'd betray my clan for her.”

"Damn," Boz swore. "You've had two shots of whiskey but you hold a hell of a lot more than that. You're sober. I intended to stay out of this, but I've enough Scot's blood to know that to a Highlander, clan is life. You're the laird entrusted with responsibility for your clan's well being and survival. For you to make such an admission, well, you're right, I can't comprehend it. Yet, it signifies a love so immense, a commitment so profound, that I must respect it."

"So you'll help?"

In reply Boz smiled.

Nial didn’t. He poured yet another glass of the potent whiskey and paced. Then he downed it in a single gulp and threw the glass on the floor, where it shattered loudly. “What the hell does it matter anyway? You said she hated me,” he stared at the glass with satisfaction. He felt a lot like those broken shards.

“That’s right. I saw the hate. The hate was visible.” Boz walked over to his cousin and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t have faeries but I do have the dratted Sedgewick sixth sense, and with that I also saw the love. It’s still there too.”

At the word, at the possibility that some of her love for him survived, Nial's whole expression changed - like the Angel Gabriel's decision had gone the right way. A knock came at the door and the footman brought Boz a note. He read it and crumpled it up and threw it on the floor, beside the shattered glass.

“Bloody hell. Bloody everlasting, eternal hell.”

“What’s wrong?” Nial’s face clenched. She hadn’t eloped or something had she?

“Almacks,” said Boz, looking like he just ate something particularly nasty.

“What’s so bad about Almacks?” Asked Nial, surprised to find that he was still able to smile. A few days ago, he hadn’t thought he would ever smile again.

“Marriage Mart Central, that’s what it is all right. When I show up there it’ll be all over the ton in no time that I’m looking for a bride. For the rest of the bloody season I’ll have title hunting females tracking me like wild game. Worse, when I show up with you, who somehow exudes sex from your pores, we might get trampled.”

At that, Nial found he could still laugh too. “I exude sex from my pores?”

“It must be sheer animal magnetism, old boy,” said Boz, who knew better than to try to put into words the aura his cousin wore not only without effort, but actually contrary to his own wishes.

Being a Highlander, Nial would rather inspire fear than desire. Yet he was savvy enough to be aware of his appeal and to use it, along with his formidable skill with weapons and warfare, to conquer his enemies. Once, the laird of a rival clan had butchered a newly wed couple of the Clan Maclee because the bride had rejected his advances. Nial seduced the laird’s mistress and got her to open a hidden passageway to his castle. Nial avenged his clansmen by killing the laird without even raising the alarm in the butcher's castle.

“I hope you have a suit I can borrow that will do for tonight. I’d better get over to a tailor to order some clothing made, if I’m to run with your fashionable set,” said the laird, conscious suddenly of a need to dress to impress that he'd not felt before. He would not be outdone by Badgerton.

“I’ll ask Mother to scout something out and send for a tailor to come take measurements and do the immediate alterations. Mum will make sure you're in the nick. We should turn our attention to strategy,” Boz commented, stretching his long legs out on the sofa.

“Strategy for what?’ Maclee asked, seating himself in a rocker that would allow him to move while he sat – he was starting to feel a wee bit antsy again.

“For getting a lady who professes to hate you beyond all else to admit that all the passion she spews at the mention of your name arises from another emotion entirely.”

Nial sighed. “Can’t I just apologize profusely, kiss the stuffing out of her, and carry her away on my horse?”

“Surely - if you don’t mind risking a knife in your back. I'm far too familiar with the uncertain quality of the female temperament to allow you to take that chance."

“It would put a damper on the honeymoon I have planned – the long honeymoon.” Nial shook his head regretfully, but gave in with good grace. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“If you chase her she might run whether or not she wants to. She may run because she thinks she is supposed to. Amorous pursuit is not the answer. You can sneak under the defenses she has erected against you as a husband by presenting yourself as a friend. Two friends from Skye on the marriage mart in merry old London would certainly spend time together.” Boz stopped in mid thought and started laughing, and said “of course.”

“What?” The Scot found the suggestion intriguing, but went into the conversation doubting he’d be able to pull it off, thanks to those claws of passion.

“If you were looking for a worthy bride to take home to Kilcuillin, you would naturally seek the advice of a female friend from Skye, if she just happened to be right here, wouldn’t you?”

Nial started to smile, “Of course I would.”

“A little jealousy, an accidental kiss or two…”

“Or three or four or five.”

“A mere slip up, an accident that could easily happen with a friend who is a female --- and Heather will decide that she should be the wife by your side, and in your bed on that isle that you both love so much.”

“Boz, you are devious, underhanded and positively Machiavellian,” Nial admired the strategy.

“It’s a gift,” said the duke, all false humility.

“Must be why we’re so close,” said Maclee as he quirked a brow. “One word of caution about your outstanding plan, cuz” he said in wry self-appraisal. “I can’t promise anything. I’m not at all certain of my control with her. While it is a grand plan, I think it is doomed to failure. ”

“Not certain of your control?” Sedgewick asked. “The man the cyprians adore because he ‘tends their gardens o’er and o’er’ before seeing to his own? The man who pontificated on his last visit that ‘a man without control can’t call himself a man’.”

“I need her so badly, that when she is finally within reach, I'm pretty damn sure I won’t be able to control how my body reacts. However, I will try,” Nial added, preparing to take off upstairs to subject himself to modeling various outfits for the dowager duchess, and to await the tailor for alterations. "Where are you headed?"

"I'm going to see Lady Sarah Jersey, one of the famed patronesses of Almack’s, to get a stranger’s ticket for you, which is not a big deal." He wiggled his eyebrows as he added, "My lofty ducal consequence will stretch to a stranger's ticket easily enough."

"But you stopped and sent a note to someone a bit ago. Are you going to see someone else or will you ask something that you fear your mighty consequence won't cover?"

"I'm going to ask a huge favor. I'm going to ask Lady Jersey to misplace Heather's dance card. That way your lady-to-be won't know that you're slated to partner a couple of her dances. Because such a favor violates the code that the bastion of society rules itself by, I sent a note to ask that Lord Jersey join our little conversation."

"Do you have some hold over the husband?"

"The man makes a bloody pest of himself begging me to allow him to invest in one of my shipping ventures which tend to turn rather a handsome profit. I don't take partners because I prefer to underwrite the ventures alone. That way, all the risk and all the profit are mine. However, it seems that Lord Jersey’s ship is about to come in."

CHAPTER TEN

“Viv,” Heather said, grasping her cousin’s arm, “I now know what a target feels like.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone’s dance card being misplaced at Almack’s. How does it feel to make history?”

“It feels like I’m the bull’s eye, waiting for some unknown male to strike,” she said with a grimace. “Tonight, when he does, I am commanded by your etiquette to pretend not to notice that the man’s eyes rarely look away from the neckline of my gown,” she said, rolling her eyes at her idiocy in wearing the cream silk gown that just barely hid her nipples.

“Well, I say your mother's right. If you’ve got a great lure, you’re silly not to use it. Besides, lots of other girls are wearing lower gowns. You just feel bare because you're used to those wretched sacks,” Viv said, rolling her eyes.

Heather didn’t disagree verbally, but she was pretty sure she felt awkward because men were looking at her and thinking that she was the ugly duckling in this pool of swans.

Geoff joined them, which was not unexpected. Lately, he was either with her or somewhere nearby. At the Craymont ball, a number of the men had been particularly attentive. When she and Viv exited the lady’s retiring room, he was standing against a nearby wall and hopped to attention as soon as he saw them. He followed them back to the ballroom. Viv now swore that every time she opened a door she expected Geoff to pop out.

“Are you quite sure that gown is proper, Heather?” Badgerton asked. He'd spent his entire night threatening every man about to walk on the dance floor with her. It hadn’t bloody helped.

Viv didn’t particularly like Geoff, which might account for why she said, “I’ve noticed you enjoying the view. Isn’t it hypocritical for you to complain if others look?”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t know this personally, Viv, but when a man finds a special lady, he doesn’t want to share the views he may enjoy with any others. Take heart, maybe someday, someone will find you special and you'll understand.”

Seeing the hurt in her cousin’s eyes at the accusation, which wasn’t even true – many had proposed to Viv but all had been rejected - Heather grew angry, and whirled on Badgerton, “Apologize to her right now.”

Geoff did as she asked, but all the while he watched Heather. She didn't know that passion sparkled in her eyes, or that her rapid breaths made her breasts thrust forward. All she knew was that his eyes heated, which made her uneasy. She feared his passion because she couldn’t muster any for him. In truth, she'd felt more passion from Nial holding her hand than from Geoff’s embrace.

Heather felt a prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck, and a sudden burst of warmth that she hadn’t experienced since she fled Kilcuillin. Had she summoned Nial by thinking of him? She didn’t have long to ponder for the musicians returned and her new arrow, errr, partner approached. She stepped into the dance with the prickling feeling persisting.

******

When Nial and Boz entered every debutante and her mother went on high alert. It was impossible not to notice the attack of primping, pointing and panting.

“It feels much like the moments right before a battle with a rival clan,” Nial noted impatiently, because all the fussing was keeping him from his goal.

“Actually,” Boz said, clapping a hand on Nial's shoulder, “an enemy clan would show more mercy than this group.”

The posturing of the campaigning females held little fear for the Scot. However, he did grow annoyed when the first one who snagged his arm managed to accidentally rub her breasts against him twice in less than a minute. Then she gave up on subtlety altogether and put her hands on his bottom, but he gave her an angry glare and the Maclee swipe, which removed the offending appendage. After that, he gave up any attempt at politeness and walked away in the middle of her second comment about the weather.

He needed to see Heather this minute. It had become a physical necessity. Nial stalked over to an area near some potted plants. He was scouring the chairs along the wall looking for her when she whirled by in the arms of a dancing partner. He stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating and the universe paused for a moment as he beheld her in her new glory. She was moonlight and magic on a wildflower-strewn peak of the Cuillins. She was the whisper of the ocean in the still of the night. She was the hidden loch after a day when every person he encountered demanded something of him. She was the repository of his soul.

How had he missed this?

Nial realized that his spirit had overtaken his eyes in reacting to her. Too bad it was several months late, or they would be wed by now, and he wouldn’t be standing here thinking about how many ways there are to geld a tall Englishman. She was a panther in a room full of tabby cats. The damned Sassenach who held her too close might have missed the qualities of her spirit that made her unique, but the ass missed nothing about the body that the spirit inhabited. Maybe he’d have to pluck the bastard’s eyes out before he gelded him.

Normally Nial wouldn’t blame any other man for looking because he looked often enough himself. This time, he felt ready to kill a man for looking, and he bloody well would if the son of a bitch didn’t keep his eyes off Heather’s neckline. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He’d heard other men describe jealousy, but this was his first personal experience with the emotion.

Dear Lord, she was spectacular.

The silk hugged her as closely as he would in the years to come. Her full breasts swelled above the neckline of the gown, and it fit her hips, highlighting their graceful sway. When she twirled in her partner’s arms, he saw that the gown cupped her rear like a lover. He ached to cup it with his hands. He burned for her and…..

He felt himself being dragged behind a tall fern. He darted half a glance at Boz who wore a fierce expression.

“Bloody hell. She can’t see you like that! If the heat in your eyes doesn’t give the game away, the fit of your pants will warn her that it isn’t friendship you want.”

Cheerful again just because he was in her presence, Nial said, “I do want friendship – among other things. I already told you I don’t believe your plan will work. I’ll try but I think I’m too bloody jealous to give it a real chance.” He returned to watching Heather. “Is that the bastard, Badgerton?”

“No, and again, I tell you that Badgerton is a nice chap.”

“Which one is he?” Nial scanned the men watching the dance floor until he spotted a tall blond watching the leering Englishman holding Heather with nearly as much malevolent intent as he. “Never mind, I see him.”

“Where?”

“There. The blond who would be second in line to kill the lecherous fop holding my Heather.”

“Yes,” Boz smiled at the description, “that’s Geoff, ” he agreed a moment before he seized Nial’s arm to drag him out of the foliage. “Now get a hold of yourself, man. I’ve spotted your first dancing partner and your number is coming up.”

“You engaged me to dance with someone other than Heather?” He was aghast at the thought. He only wanted Heather.

In the same tone he would use with a toddler, Sedgewick said, “It will be difficult to convince Heather that you need friendly advice on courting if you are not doing any of it.”

“She's too sharp to believe that the fire that is only in my eyes when I look at her is for other women.”

“Either way, you’re booked to dance with other ladies. For God’s sake, you can try to damp down the fire.”

“Bloody hell,” was Nial’s less than enthusiastic reply as he approached Lady Elizabeth Montwell, who was to be the first act in the private play they would stage for Heather.

Boz grinned at Nial's grim expression. Most men would view dancing with the lovely blonde with some degree of anticipation. He nodded approvingly as Nial managed to assume an acceptably bland expression as he took her hand and headed for the dance floor.

When a familiar bottom swirled by Heather's face blanched. She put a hand to her throat as a twirl of the blonde turned Nial to face her. “My God,” she murmured “It can’t be. Why would he be here?”

“Who? Are you all right?” Geoff followed her eyes. "What's his deal? Most men would be dragging her off to a quiet corner." As the hands on the dance floor grew bolder in their caresses of the tall black-haired bloke, he asked, "What on earth is wrong with Liz? She has her hands all over him.”

Heather huffed in exasperation. “He has that effect on women.”

Geoff succeeded in attracting her attention away from the man momentarily by asking about the man Viv was dancing with.

“He is another of her cast offs. She vows that she will never marry because she doesn’t want any man to control her future. Viv says….” She broke off in the middle of her story when the voice that haunted her dreams whispered in her ear.

“Hello, Heather. I had to speak with the panther in this room of tabbies.”

She turned to him. “Nial! I saw you dance by a moment ago. What are you doing in England?”

He gestured and she held out her hand to be kissed. He told himself to plant a polite kiss on the back of her hand and back off. When his lips touched her fingers a strong physical jolt traveled through his body, vibrating between his heart and his manhood. It felt like he had slept all of his life and awoke just now, at her touch. Even the insipid English ballroom became a brand new adventure because she occupied it. He had felt a smaller connection before but had been stupid enough to discount it.

He didn’t discount it now. He allowed his tongue a brief caress of her fingers before he released her hand. It could have been accidental, though it wasn’t. His eyes held hers in that moment. When he saw her blush as her lips parted slightly, as though she had to draw in more air to breathe, he knew that she wasn’t immune to him physically. He almost fell to his knees in gratitude.

He smiled then, a seductive knowing smile that dazzled Heather. Such a small thing, but she had dreamed for years of having him look at her thus, even once.

They were drowning in each other and could see nothing else. Certainly, they could not see Geoff, but he was about to take some pretty drastic action. To prevent the imminent social disaster, Sedgewick spoke up. “Lady Heather, you are all that is lovely tonight, and I see you do know my cousin Nial. Skye is such a small place, that I thought you might.” Boz kept his tone casual in an attempt to deflect the charged atmosphere between the other two men that Heather wasn’t even aware of.

“Certainly I know Nial. We are friends. My family has known his for many years,” she said, trying not to look like her world had just been upended.

Hearing her describe their relationship that way was a sucker punch to the gut. Nial's jaw tightened in response. Now she wanted to be just friends? Not on her life. Any charade would be short lived, assuming he could play it at all. It would have to be, because he didn’t know how long he could refrain from smashing Badgerton into tiny bits.

It eased him a bit that Heather still held his arm, although the wariness in her eyes knifed his soul. She had a thick wall protecting her heart. His task would not be easy. But she held his arm, his heart, and his future. He was finally in her presence again. It was a start.

When Nial made a point of telling her how well young Fergus was doing, her eyes lit wildly. “How did you come to see him, Nial?”

“I’ve been stopping by to check on him and his family to be sure the lad was well,” he said, not telling Heather how astounded the crofters had been by each visit. He especially didn’t mention how it bewildered them that the laird spent most of the visits staring at an empty stool beside the boy’s bed.

At those words, he was her prince again – albeit Nial knew it would only be seconds before she recalled that she now thought him to be a frog. The entranced expression Heather wore at his words told him how much the gesture meant to her.

She stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and give him a hug as she whispered, “Oh Nial. What a sweetheart you are. Thank you.”

“Heather, you've been with the Sassenach too long if you think that is how a Highland lass says thank you.” He quirked a brow in challenge, never expecting her to take up the gauntlet because he was still having trouble reconciling the shy odd lass who had been his friend with the panther who stood before him.

The twinkling mischief in her eyes told him otherwise only a moment before her lips met his in what would have been a quick kiss, except that he was starving for a taste of her. Nial lengthened the moment, even as he ordered himself not to. His starving senses seized control of his will. For an all too brief frozen moment, his arms held her to him tightly as he sipped at her lips. When the kiss ended one of his hands remained on the small of her back in a gesture that Heather never thought to protest because it felt so natural and because, well, it was Nial.

His free hand twirled a loose curl that was both sandy and chocolate, as he leaned close to her ear and said, “Ho ro mo nighean donn boidheach.”

Boz glared at Nial, who shrugged apologetically. Boz glared harder, for the apology was supremely insincere. The duke stood close to Geoff, which was a good thing as it happened. He had to put out a restraining hand when Geoff moved forward, intending to physically separate the couple.

“What the hell did he just say to her?” Geoff snarled.

Because Boz tried not to lie directly to friends, he replied, “Gaelic can be so difficult to interpret.” He didn’t tell the man who was already seething that the comment meant My beautiful brown-haired maiden because Badgerton’s response to the possessive phrase would have been impossible to restrain.

The duke tiptoed through a battlefield already, and it was still early. The two hadn’t even danced yet.

Heather knew what the words meant, but took them as one of the compliments that the charmer tossed out casually and the throngs of women panting after him were foolish enough to take to heart. She had been a fool once and deliberately summoned the image of Nial naked and writhing in passion with the widow to bolster her still-foolish heart, which beat faster at his words.

As the warmth his words inspired changed to skepticism and rejection, Nial watched the play of emotions in her eyes and was briefly disheartened. How would he tear down that wall?

With the lightning-quick thought processes that allowed him to lead his clan so successfully, he evaluated the cards he held and the challenge he faced. Her heart rejected him but her body craved him. She was –had better be— unawakened, but she had wanted him for years. Her crush was legendary on Skye, and he struggled with unaccustomed guilt, recalling that being teased about it had always brought annoyance and sharp words. Passion wasn’t all he wanted from her, but a man fought with the weapons at hand. She'd selected those he was best with and she'd chosen his favorite game. It was one he would never play with another woman.

When the orchestra struck up a waltz, he turned to her, pleased that the timing prevented any attempt she might make to guard against her reaction to his touch. He took her hand as he said, "My Lady, I believe this is my dance.”

“You don’t have to dance with him, Heather. To hell with Almack’s and its rules,” Geoff snarled.

Nial kept her hand within his and hidden within that grasp, his thumb traced small arcs on her palm that caused her to shiver in response to the light touch. “Have you become so fancy here in London that you haven’t time to spend with a lad from Skye?”

His touch interfered with her ability to think. “Of course not, Nial. Shall we?”

They took the floor, and Nial summoned every ounce of discipline to force himself to place his hands in the proper waltz position. That wasn’t where they wanted to go, and it wasn’t where they belonged. Still, he held her with the distance propriety demanded. However, he spoke in a deliberately muted tone.

“What? I’m sorry, Nial, I couldn’t hear you over the music,” Heather said, naively unaware of his ploy.

He repeated his words, still softly and she shook her head, indicating that she had missed his statement again. Then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, she said, “This is silly,” and put both arms around his neck, allowing him to draw her close, and he did so quickly. He drew her close to his heart, where he could feel every inch of the body that haunted his dreams.

“I’m sure my comment wasn’t all that fascinating and nothing you don’t get told a hundred times a day.” He glanced down at her, at the exquisite body he would take and hold as closely as her heart. He rubbed a finger against her cheek but it wasn't enough. He cupped it in his palm as he said, “Sweet Scotland, Heather, you are beautiful.”

She rubbed her cheek into his hand as her fingers played through his hair. He felt himself warming and twitching as his staff stretched at record pace and much against his will. He had been making every effort not to react physically while he held her so close for fear she might be frightened away. He willed his body to calm down, and lowered his lids to hide the wild light in his eyes. The angle gave him a prime view of the full curve of her lips and the fuller curve of the breasts nearly overflowing her gown. His tarse failed to heed his instructions to cease and desist.

A moment later, Heather’s finger trailed over his pursed lips. “Nial? Are you all right?”

His navy eyes snapped open and smoldered at her. He gave his tongue strict instructions that it would not help his body cool down if he licked her finger. His tongue actually obeyed him. Of course, he should have said a word or two to his mouth, because it promptly applied suction to the stroking digit. That touch sent ripples of heat that slowly and inexorably made their way to his rigid digit. She moaned and he vehemently wished that the rigid digit in question occupied his hand, instead of his trousers.

He nibbled her finger as she looked at him with pain and questions and desire. “Sweet, so sweet,” he murmured, as his rebelling tongue began to lick the stroking index finger, and his errant brain began to imagine licking a smaller, hidden nub. He would nibble on that one too and she would writhe helplessly as he tasted her passion. His manhood pulsed with need. He sucked in his breath and forgot to let it out as she took her free hand and rubbed his earlobe.

Heather felt hot and achy. She itched in the oddest places. Nial had fire in his eyes and he was looking at her, at last, at long last. Her nipples pebbled against the silk of her gown as she felt the heat of his mouth against her finger. When he sucked on the tip she started in surprise before she twisted in his arms, feeling that suction in her breasts and lower, in the hidden place between her thighs.

Nial resisted the lure of her pebbled nipples for as long as his will power would allow. He must have held out for at least three breaths before one hand left her waist and his fingers barely touched the underside of her breast. He heard the raspy sound of her breathing and knew she was his. His fingers moved higher to stroke the nipple through the thin silk.

For years, he'd abhorred that women considered an invitation to dance to be the equivalent of the hunt master crying “Open season on Maclee’s gear.” For the first time he found himself in the position of those women. He cupped her buttocks with his free hand and stopped dancing entirely as he rubbed her against his erection.

The touch she had dreamed of for so many lonely years overwhelmed her ability to resist. It overcame her betrayal and rage as it intensified the tug of her nipples and caused a spurt of moisture between her legs. When he stopped dancing altogether and pulled her bottom to cup the aroused male member she had only heard whispers about before, her first thought – deny it though she would to her dying breath – was “finally.”

Fortunately, her attempts to visualize his bare sex brought back vivid recall of the time she had seen his bare bottom. The member she now tried to imagine had been embedded in the witch. She stiffened her arms to push him away. Then she slapped him across the face and ran off the dance floor.

Actively engaged in trying to distract Geoff, Boz succeeded to a degree only because he was talking about the man’s intentions toward Heather. Boz winced when he saw Nial’s open passion for the girl. His mouth fell open when his cousin stopped dancing and pulled Heather to cup his obvious hard-on. Boz had to use both hands to hold Geoff back until Heather delivered the well-deserved, but belated slap and ran off the dance floor.

Like a hound called to heel, Geoff ran after Heather.

Boz walked over as his kinsman stood at the edge of the dance floor with hot eyes that traced Heather’s path.

“We better get out of here before the fit of your pants gets you arrested on public indecency charges. Bloody hell, what's wrong with you?”

“I couldn’t control myself,” Nial said, smiling in self-castigation. “I feared that would be a problem. But no, I will not go until I know she is all right.”

******

Heather was many things, but all right wasn't one of them. She stood in the center of the powder room grinning, in tears, and steaming mad. Viv followed after she halted Geoff who actually tried to enter.

"I'm thinking that we should climb out the window. The cleaning crew would have to run Geoff out, hours after the hall empties and every other soul lies long abed." Viv walked to her cousin and tucked up a stray lock of hair. "Now, cousin - you're made of sterner stuff than this. I gather that gorgeous specimen of masculinity is Nial?”

“’Tis said demons come in the fairest guises, isn’t it? Well 'tis certainly true of that one,” Heather said, her wrathful words unmatched by her wistful expression.

“I thought you said that he had no interest in you?" Viv asked. "He certainly appeared, well, interested.”

“What I can’t believe is that I fell for it - for a bit, mind you. On the night that part of my life ended he conveyed his opinion of me, his scorn at the idea of a future together so plainly that even I could understand.” Incongruously, Heather thought about how much she'd have given to change places with the black-haired bitch, evil or not.

“From the looks of him tonight, he may have changed his mind.”

“Humph. Likely he’s changed his mind about several women since the black widow. The caution about a leopard and his spots comes to mind,” said Heather. She still couldn't stop the dreamer inside from thinking, what if he wants me, what if he….no, don’t delude yourself, lass. She told the dreamer that Nial didn’t know the meaning of the word love.

"Just be careful. Leopards are sly creatures that appear tame just before they bite," Viv said with a grin. When her cousin grinned in return, she said, "I'm just not sure whether you should be careful to avoid the bite or encourage it."

"Me either, " Heather replied, sounding more like herself.

They decided to re-enter the fray, and sure enough, Geoff waited patiently.

As they got to the end of the hall, Nial tried to grab her arm and Geoff whirled on him. “Back off, you backwoods lothario. Perhaps in the bloody Highlands it is acceptable to accost women on the dance floor, but we behave with a bit more class in town.” Badgerton said, accompanying the words with an aristocratic sneer.

Nial backed off, and didn’t try to pursue Heather, not because of Badgerton’s words, but because the hurt expression in her eyes said he should tread carefully. His Maclee nature wouldn’t let him take the insult without response. He stepped forward and gave the man a light shove, causing him to stumble into a passing waiter carrying a full tray of partially empty glasses. The loud crash, the assorted beverage remains staining Badgerton’s suit, and the raised brows of society matrons focused the room’s attention on the formerly sneering noble.

“At least in the bloody Highlands, we do it with grace, Badgerton,” Nial replied and turned to leave, but not before Heather raised her glass to him. Dusting off his wet clothing and trying to soothe the ruffled feathers of the waiter, Badgerton caught the salute as well and grimaced.

It appeared that the new Heather still considered herself a proud Highland lass.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Early the next afternoon, Nial and Boz set out for a ride in the park. ‘Twasn’t what Nial considered a ride at all. The whole endeavor felt more like a stroll atop a horse that served more as fashion accessory than steed. The ton rode here to see and be seen by the others in the small, manicured to-within-an-inch-of-its-life snippet of greenery that passed for nature in the crowded environs of London. Nial viewed the fact that this was “socially, an important contact spot” as proof that the English lacked both common sense and enough to do.

Yet he went along with the idiotic endeavor for the simple reason that his lady would be there. Boz’s network of spies said that Lady Heather would be at the park this afternoon with an escort. It was the end of that phrase that had Nial gritting his jaw as he said a fervent prayer that his hot temper would stay within his control.

Nial asked his cousin about it again, and as it was the fifth time he asked the same question, it made Sedgewick grit his teeth.

“Who the hell will she be with? Think man, you must have a clue. Why are you so convinced 'twill not be Badgerton?” Nial couldn’t stop the query, even though he'd asked the same question before and knew it would exasperate the other man.

Boz had already told his cousin four times that the entirety of his information was that Heather had accepted an invitation to go to the park that day, and his informant thought that the invitation had come from “someone new.” Actually, his informant, a maid in his household related to a maid in the Standings household, also stated that the ranks of Heather’s ardent admirers grew by the day. Given the tenuous grasp Nial had on his control when he was only aware of Geoff’s attentions, Boz shuddered to think what the man would do when he learned the extent of his competition.

Instead of answering the query again, this time Boz said, “I told you last night and say again that your display at Almack’s proves you require a trip to Madame Odettes. You need to work out some of that lust with an available female before you end up taking the girl right on the dance floor. My lofty ducal status,” he wiggled his eyebrows nobly, “lets my family get away with a great deal, but there are limits to what the ton will tolerate even from me.”

They neared the park as Boz tossed that one out, and Nial craned his neck to look at every passerby. “I don’t want any other lass. I will not be unfaithful to Heather again.” Nial’s firm pronouncement had not once wavered since his arrival in town. “Besides, if I wanted a lass last night I could have taken the bloody wench ensconced in my bed when I returned to your place.”

“Your squire had to toss another one from your bed in my house?” Boz asked with amusement tinged with a bit of concern. Apparently, some of his staff continued to supplement their income by bribery even after being threatened with dismissal without a reference. This he would have to investigate.

“Indeed. Based upon the pole in my trousers this one must've thought she had some chance of success. Created quite a ruckus, she did. Your mother led her away and comforted her.” The half-hearted comments showed that the rather typical incident warranted little interest.

“I see her,” Nial gestured towards where Heather sat on a bench beside a tall brown-haired bloke.

“Where?”

“There,” Maclee pointed, “beside the bastard sliding far too close. Damn. If he moves his paw another inch towards her leg he’ll have to catch it with his other one.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, showing that the threat was not idle.

Sedgewick never suspected the threat to be idle. A fierce breed, the Scots rarely made threats they didn't mean. “That’s Roderick Nimsley, heir to the Earl of Blassingame. Get down, you ass, and we’ll walk over to chat with the ladies under yon tree. And for God’s sake stop acting like a hound pointing out its prey.”

Nial gave a long-suffering sigh and followed his cousin towards three females under the branches of a shade tree. They were arranged for effect, and no doubt, he was about to endure a lengthy few minutes hearing them twitter about nonsense.

As the laird and the duke who topped every matron’s most wanted son-in-law list approached, the group bubbled with excitement. A mass of hair smoothing, skirt straightening and neckline lowering broke out as though the command had been given. Boz introduced the ladies and Nial promptly forgot every name as he glanced over to find Heather staring pointedly at the group. Her eyes narrowed, making him want to do a handstand.

Nial's distraction gave the black-haired lass next to him an opportunity to place her hand under the back of his waistcoat. He didn’t even notice until he felt a female hand squeezing his buttocks, and heard a husky whisper aimed at the general direction of his ear offering to “meet him later.” He stepped back two steps to put himself and his bodily appendages out of reach. Unfortunately, the group followed, and he had to swallow another long-suffering sigh as he tried to look fascinated by the blonde’s comments about how “she was convinced there would be a shower any minute now.” Since it was bloody England in spring, it hardly took an immense intellect to ferret out the possibility of an afternoon shower.

******

Heather tried to pay attention to Rod and ignore the too-obvious attempts of the nearby women to gain Nial’s attention. She did not succeed and wondered for the fifty-seventh time since last night why she couldn't ignore the horny beast and get on with her life. Rod noticed that her attention was not on him, and he took her hand and brought it to his lips, murmuring, “Your beauty puts the flowers to shame.” She jerked her glance back to her escort as she felt his tongue on her fingers. Nial’s tongue gave her melting shivers, but this man’s simply made her want to wipe her hand on her skirt.

Unconsciously, Heather did just that a minute later but did not know that the sensual smile playing about the corners of Nial’s mouth was due to that reaction. She assumed he saw something in the offerings before him that aroused a male response, and she suddenly could not take this a moment longer. She jumped up to head for her horse without a fare thee well to Rod. As Maclee saw her leave, he also walked away from the gaggle without a word.

Heather half-turned to look back and saw the black-haired lass catch Nial's hand and tug it towards her breast. It so unnerved Heather that she snapped the reins of her horse. Unused to such rough treatment, the steed bolted and headed straight for the road, where two of the young bloods of the ton staged an impromptu race to show off their new rigs.

Nial saw her frenzied tug on the reins, saw her lose control of her mount. The young idiots would trample Heather. He mounted his fleet stallion at a run. Boz raced after him, as did Nimsley, belatedly. The sound of another horse heralded Badgerton joining the rescue effort. They arrived at the edge of the road, and the three other men reined their animals to stop. To continue would be suicidal. Heather’s horse reared in the center of the road and the oncoming carriages hurtled too fast to stop. Nial didn't stop. He didn’t even pause to consider the consequences. He angled his mount and jerked off his saddle, giving a Gaelic command that the trained steed would respond to with a burst of speed.

Heather tugged at the reins, struggling to control her mount. The carriages driven by the foolish young fops headed straight at her at top speed. She saw her would-be saviors stop. As death approached her life didn't flash before her, as warrior's tales said it would. She felt only a gaping loss that she would die without ever culminating her passion for Nial.

A movement angled towards her from the right. Nial rode bareback, crouched in a warrior’s posture. He leaned down to grasp her to his horse, but his arrival in the road panicked her horse further. It threw her and bounded to safety. The carriages nearly upon them, Nial dismounted and his horse jumped for the side of the road. He scooped Heather into his arms. As he lifted her over his head, he said softly, “My world would have no meaning without you in it, Heather.” Then he yelled to his cousin, “Catch,” and tossed her.

Boz caught her, only barely managing to remain on his feet. With breaths held, the crowd watched wide-eyed as the instant Heather left the Scot's arms, the conveyances were upon Nial.

Boz and Heather identified the figure of light as a faerie knight. The faerie’s aid allowed the carriages to merely graze Nial as they thundered past on a road barely wide enough for the two conveyances. Sedgewick still held the girl but she ignored Geoff and Rod’s frantic inquiries, twisted to free herself, and launched towards Nial who lay in the road.

******

Nial took deep breaths, astonished to be alive. He felt fire shooting down his system and knew Heather was there before he opened his eyes. Not only had he somehow survived his suicidal rescue, but his fate leaned over him, running her hands down the length of his body to test his limbs. "You might have hidden injuries within, " Heather mumbled as she placed a hand on his belly. "I've seen men die without a scratch on them."

Nial felt blood trickling from his arm, his back and the underside of one leg. He had several cuts, but could have given sworn testimony that otherwise he was perfectly fine. He knew that because Heather’s tender touch awoke the one-eyed demon in his trousers.

“Nial, are you all right? Speak to me!” She demanded as she leaned to him, cupping his cheeks. He rubbed against her hands, as he gazed at her distraught face. Her locks had escaped their confinement atop her head, her dress was stained and torn, and her breath came in pants as her breasts strained against her bodice.

Nial was a terrible patient, especially because women attempted to coddle him and force him to rest whenever he so much as sneezed. He was, of course, aware that their motives in getting him to bed were not concern for his health. He tended to react by screaming at the would-be nurse, “I’m a warrior not a simpering fop. I’ll be fine if you will leave me alone.”

Heather’s coddling, for that was what she was doing, nourished his soul. The warrior who once continued a battle against a rival clan with two lead balls and a sword wound, murmured, “I feel a bit weak but I have every confidence that your care will put me on the mend.”

Badgerton joined the others to flank the pair and made the mistake of reaching down to try to tug Heather away. “You bloody bastard. How dare you imply that Lady Heather would lower herself to play physician for you.”

Instead of surrendering to his impulse to leap to his all-too-healthy feet and beat the immortal crap out of the Sassenach arse, the laird closed his eyes, and emitted a loud groan.

Heather tried to turn to him at that sound, but Geoff still yanked at her arm. She snatched it away. “You oafish idiot. Unhand me. Of course I’ll tend Nial myself. After all, left to your heroic efforts I’d be lying dead in the road. The Shining Folk have no interest in saving me.”

Nial managed to bravely struggle to his feet – with her help, of course. “The faeries? I didn't see them. Heather, are you sure that the faeries saved me?”

She wrapped her arm about his waist to guide him to the carriage Boz had appropriated from one of the young fools. Nial wrapped his arm around her waist in return, allegedly for support, and awaited her reply.

“Aye ‘twas the faeries. Rather, a single faerie knight well girded for battle.”

Most of the onlookers laughed. Rod said, “The lass I can excuse for we all know women are fanciful creatures. But can you imagine a grown man who actually believes in faeries?”

Sedgewick turned to his cousin. “It is likely, that until you wed and sire an heir the Shining Folk will guard you carefully. They would sorely miss all the mischief they make with your family if none of your direct line survived.”

The other two men then bit their tongues to avoid offending the powerful duke who apparently believed in faerie tales himself.

Boz got in the carriage first and willingly joined his friend’s little drama by placing a needless hand to his arm to assist his ascent, whispering, “Perhaps you should give up this hunt for your fate and tread the boards. There must be a hidden talent for acting in your family.”

The Scot winked and gave a low moan, the credibility of which arose from the fact that Heather placed attentive hands on his bum to be sure he entered the carriage safely. Boz reached to help Heather, but she jumped into the carriage and seated herself beside the laird. She disregarded the blood from the scratch on his arm to gather his head to her bosom.

Nial’s torn shirt revealed a bloody gash on his chest. She turned her attention there, tearing a strip of fabric from her skirt and wetting it with her saliva before patting his chest. The gash was near his nipple, and he flushed when his observant cousin “tsked” as it pebbled.

Disturbed by the conquering onslaught of desire and his consequently growing arousal, especially with Boz serving as eyewitness, Nial fixed genuinely tormented eyes on Heather. “I am a little tired. Perhaps you can await our arrival at Sedgewick house before continuing your examination.”

“Of course,” Heather murmured, moving her hand away from his chest and letting it fall to his lap. Nial’s sex awoke when she leaned over him on the road. It showed greater interest when she placed his head between her breasts. When Heather caressed his nipple with the wet cloth, his tarse grew rigidly erect. Now her hand brushed his lap, coming close to directly assailing the throbbing member that hadn’t been interested in being attended since she walked away. Nial groaned and thrust against the touch he'd dreamed of for too long to have a prayer of resisting.

He looked at Boz in a silent, yet heartfelt plea for help.

Under the circumstances, Boz complied wholeheartedly. “Wait a few minutes to examine Nial because we're nearly there. You can be much more thorough at my house.” Heather nodded but didn't look like she'd wait long so both men gave sighs of relief when the carriage halted at the ducal residence.

The Scot said a silent prayer of thanksgiving when the arrival of Heather’s maid with her herbal supplies turned her attention elsewhere, allowing Sedgewick to hustle him upstairs to his room. Hearing Heather on the steps and having an ardent desire not to be closeted in a bedroom with those two, Boz said, “Be careful. You’re her hero right now and you don’t want to lose that advantage. Don’t push too fast.”

“I’ll try, but it’s hard.”

Boz wasn’t about to let a shot like that pass. “Hell, that was pretty clear in the carriage.”

“Bugger off,” Nial said without heat, looking up as Heather entered. The duke paused for a moment in the doorway before he winked and thoughtfully committed a grave breach of etiquette by closing the door entirely.

The lass carried water, a small basket of herbs, and a stack of cloth for bandages. She set it all on the bedside table, and perched beside Nial. “Can you sit up?”

He complied and she began to unbutton his shirt. She sat in front of him and rose on her heels to pull the shirt from his arms. A long lock of burnished bronze brushed his bare chest while her fragrance surrounded him. He breathed deeply, wanting to bathe in her scent of orchids and musk. He really couldn’t allow himself to think about what he wanted to do with that lock of hair. She took rather a long time getting his shirt off and leaned so close that if he had opened his lips he could have had her nipple in his mouth. His tongue battered against his clenched teeth with an eagerness to do just that.

As she leaned over to examine a scratch on his forearm, several long strands of golden brown, auburn and chocolate fell beneath the sheet to curl around the top of Nial’s erection, which far outstretched his pants. While Heather didn’t know where her hair touched him, Nial and the trouser traitor certainly did. It craved contact with any part of her and she turned her head slightly so that the hairs tickled the traitor's sensitive head. Nial gasped and clenched but couldn't halt the dollop of liquid pleasure that emerged.

The growl that followed was borne of the pleasure of that single burst and of the pain of holding back the release that he needed so badly from her, only from her. He lay back on the pillows, panting through teeth gritted against a need more potent than he'd thought humanly possible. He shut his eyes against the sight of her creamy breasts leaning over him and clenched his fists around a hunk of bedding so he couldn’t palm those breasts or suckle them or feast upon them or….

“Nial?” She asked, concern plain in her voice.

He was a cad, a bounder of the worst kind, and if he opened his eyes she'd see the wild cauldron of boiling need and know what he was and what he wanted.

“Nial?”

Her worry was more apparent this time, as she raised a hand to the beaded drops of perspiration on his brow and then, heaven help him, she touched his chest, where drops of sweat glittered amongst the wild black tangle of hair. She began to comb through that hair, and soon enough made her way to the taut nipples that drew her fingers time and time again.

“Nial?”

This time a husky tone underscored the question and her touch to his nipples frankly teased. His eyes popped open and her golden gaze remained close, too close for evasion or dissembling. The pebbling of his nipples had been a virgin’s first clue to the cause of his distress. She recalled that under his touch her nipples had become as sharp as the desire battering her body.

His gaze whipped and tossed like the sea surrounding Skye in the throes of a thunderstorm. The lightning sparkled in his eyes. Then she pressed her hand over his heart and felt the thunder. Her gaze flickered down to his lips as his tongue darted out to lick the dry surface. His desire kindled so flagrantly that a virgin could not mistake it.

Nial knew his lapse had shredded his pretense. Now she would never believe he craved only her friendship. The plan had been ludicrous anyway because his desire was as open as his heart and both were Heather’s, whether she'd have him or not. So he grabbed her hand, afraid she would storm from the room. If she did, he would be left alone in an aching, unsatisfied void where he would be tormented by love and a passionate yearning that could never be fulfilled. A faerie fated forever it would be, but would it be filled with joy and passion or aching loneliness and biting need?

His expression revealed the pain of where his thoughts wandered so she didn’t jerk her hand away, though that had been her first impulse. He gripped her fingers and long moments passed in silence as their eyes spoke for them. Hers carried the pain of remembered betrayal and lost dreams, but showed hints of hope that the prince who rescued her today would show himself to be the man of her dreams. His overflowed with a heady brew of passion, fear, possibilities and a hope as stubborn as the Scot who couldn't quench it.

As the silence stretched, the new woman birthed so recently experienced a desire to test herself and her power and perhaps to test him as well. How many female hands had she seen him swipe away? Her challenge showed in her eyes and her hands moved to play along his arms. She felt his muscles ripple in response as he gripped the sheets tighter. Her fingers moved up to torment his earlobes and he shifted his head closer to give her greater access. She waited for the motion that would end her foolish dream that hers would be the hands he would not swipe away.

Nial had no second sight but he didn't need it to know what was afoot. The open honesty of her eyes trumpeted her intent. She wanted to test him by playing the game. The fame of the Maclee swipe was one of the reasons females toyed with his person so openly. They touched to see if their hands were the ones he would not swipe away. He had waited all his life to play this game with her. She had more reason to doubt him than most, so this would not be the only time they would play. Despite his assurances, they would play again.

She rubbed his chest with the tips of her fingers in swirls and circles that centered around his navel. Her tentative caresses bathed him in fire that kindled a sharp clawing need, a pain long awaited and sought during countless empty encounters. He took other women to ease a physical need. When he hungered, he ate and when he thirsted he drank. He avoided tending his sensual needs for as long as his drives would allow because he was aware that every woman he dallied with hoped she would be the one. Each time he had been aware that she was not, so he kept his entanglements short to try to avoid inflicting more pain than necessary.

But this time, although the play of her virginal hands was on his body, it reached his soul. He held on as fiercely as he could and he would hold out as long as he could, but she would outlast him in this battle. He didn’t want to scare her away when he surrendered. He could hold back the dark tide of desire for just so long before the wave broke. He could feel it building as her hands drifted lower to dip inside his navel, moving in and out of the crevice in motions his groin demanded he imitate. He couldn’t stop the thrust of his violently aroused tarse against the sheets as his rampaging ardor battered at his sanity.

He sensed her intent to bare him a moment before she did it. He could not raise his hands to stop her, for she would interpret that as the swipe she expected. He spoke instead. His voice was a barely human growl and shouted his craving although he spoke only one word as her hands grasped the coverlet to flick it away.

“Wait.”

“What? The Maclee swipe isn’t verbal.”

He could see the teasing in her eyes and hear it in her voice. But he also heard the passion, and glanced to her breasts to see it in the fullness of the mounds and in the tightly aroused nubs. Her legs moved restlessly, telling him that she was wet for him. His hands would find the moisture of her passion coating the curly hair that guarded the gates of her paradise that he alone would conquer – but not today.

“This is not the Maclee swipe. This is a man who is afraid and asking you to wait.” His tone was as level as he could make it, but he couldn’t help that he panted between each word.

“Afraid? The hero who foolishly ran out into traffic knowing he faced sudden death. Afraid? Not likely. Why did you do it? You should not have risked so much for me. You could have died. You would have died without the faeries' assistance, which you couldn't have expected. You've ridden since you were a toddling child so you knew full well the risk you took. Why?”

There it was. The question. His Heather was bold but likely God in his wisdom knew that a faint lass would never do for him. Still, he hadn’t expected to face the verbal query and the physical query simultaneously. His currently scattered wits could not disguise what he felt for her now, so he better not try. She would see an attempt at evasion as a denial of the question she hadn’t voiced. Perhaps she would even see it as a second and more brutal betrayal and he would never do that to her again.

He sat straight up in the bed. He wanted to take her hand as he spoke but feared she would see that too as a physical evasion. This total honesty business was intimidating.

“Heather?” He extended his palm outward, asking that she place her hand in his.

"Nial, you're scaring me. I don't know what you're asking. I don't know what you want. Oh, I can tell what you appear to want but you can't mean what you're hinting. I won't believe you mean it. No, I won't. My girlhood dreams have no basis in reality. I'm grown up now and I know that. There is no Prince Charming. There are only frogs."

Frogs? She couldn't want to discuss amphibians now. This must be that female logic his married friends groaned about. He'd rather face a cohort of armed warriors barehanded. He couldn't muddle through her meaning. All he understood was that she was scared. That made two of them. He'd try again.

He held out his hand out once more, his eyes meeting hers until she chewed her lower lip and slowly placed her tiny hand in his. His fingers curled over it like they'd never let go. Then he decided to ease into answering the question about the past first. Get the pain over with.

“You know that I grew up under the dratted curse. If I don't find my fated mate and wed the wrong woman I will face a life of agony. You know some of the stories. For God’s sake, you know about my parent's marriage. Father's life was full of torment. The pain of not being wed to his Fia never left him and on his deathbed, her name was the last word he uttered. I like to think they are together now. After his fights and battles with my mother, he could surely use some peace and contentment in the hereafter. Yet I can’t blame Mother either, for she had to live her entire married life with another woman in her bed.”

Her eyes showed her sympathy, and she reached up her free hand to wipe the tiny dots of moisture that had escaped his control from the corners of his eyes as he spoke of what he had never voiced until today.

“So I knew first hand what I faced. After the fair, when circumstances, the clan elders and your father began pressuring me for a marriage with you,” her eyes closed. She looked away and would have gotten up from the bed. He could see her preparing to leave. “Nay, Heather. Please. Listen to all of it. Please.” He continued in a rush, knowing her tolerance might expire at any second. “I expected that you would be the test I had to resist to find my fate. In my blind and selfish way, I was so sure of that fact that I never looked at you. I never really saw you. I never looked even after I felt a connection with you I had not known before. I told myself it was friendship.”

She gave him a sad half-smile and tried to rise again. "I understand. I've heard of how kind you are to the women you try to let down easily. We are friends. I said so just last night now, didn't I?"

He tugged her back down. “Nay, lass. You’re getting ahead of me again. Sweet,” he said, tilting her chin up to look deeply into her eyes, “the day they demanded a decision, I set up a scheme with Sorcha. We were to be kissing in the garden when you came for my answer. I thought that would scare away the girl with dreams in her eyes and let me keep the friend. But things went awry because I was tricked.”

He told her about the black widow and her eyes widened. “She just vanished in a puff of smoke?”

“Indeed. As I said, it was the faerie flag and the power she thought it represented that she craved all along.”

“Well you got what you wanted all the way round, then. We are friends and the dreams are gone from my eyes. They won’t trouble you again,” she snapped the words, her pain painted across her face.

This time when she turned to rise, he snatched her to his chest and held her in an iron grip borne of terror because she'd voiced his greatest fear. “Damn it, sit down,” he roared.

She started visibly. "Nial, none of this is like you. You are tranquility personified with females. You're never rude and I've not once heard you use profanity in the presence of a lady. Clearly, I've somehow provoked you, but I don't know what I did to upset you or to cause such a reaction. If you will just let me get up I swear I will go away. You can get on with your search without me or my parents or the elders interfering."

He swallowed deeply. Well, he gulped really. He put up a hand to wipe the sweat now rolling down his face and the hand shook. Nial was nervous, she was certain of it. She had never seen him nervous over anything and if anyone in all of Skye had she would have heard the tale before now. Strangely, his nerves calmed her a bit and she waited.

“Heather, you asked why I would risk my life to save you. I did it because if I had not done so, I would have condemned myself to my father’s life, and I would have never known the joy my grandparents shared,” he said with his heart on his sleeve and his soul in his voice.

She shook her head no, stopped and nearly drowned in the eyes that shined with ....no, she shook her head harder.

He nodded yes. "Perhaps words are the wrong way to convince you."

He continued to nod yes to her no as he tightened his arms and drew her close. His mouth approached hers in the kiss he had sought all of his life. When his lips met hers at last, at long, long last, he felt a tug in his chest as his soul left his keeping. There was emptiness for a moment before he felt hers enter him. The kiss was tender and sweet but he could only keep the knot on his passion for moments before it slipped his control. He broke off the kiss when his craving for more became nearly irresistible.

He drew back and looked at her. Her golden eyes carried the first confused sparkling of desire, but doubt still colored her countenance. He knew that she didn’t assign his meaning to his words. She was his fate, but she must now learn that he was hers. She believed in the Maclee swipe, and that he would give it to her. He was a master of that particular game, but he never before played it for such high stakes. He lay back on the pillows and bent his elbows to place his arms behind his head. If she wanted to play, he would risk no motion that she could misinterpret.

The sparkle of a thousand sunrises was in her eyes. “I can play? I can even remove the covers?”

“One caution. Last night, when desire overtook me on the dance floor and I drew you to my groin you were shocked and delivered a sound slap that I doubtless deserved, though I will not pretend I enjoyed the experience. My staff is unusually large at rest and...”

She interrupted. “I’ve heard that you're hung like a horse.”

“I was trying to be delicate, minx. My point is that you were frightened and ran from me last night. I am currently much more aroused, and consequently much larger than I was then. If you continue, you must first promise that you will not run from me. If I shock you, just stop or cover me again. Promise?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the sheet. Then she grasped the edge and thrust it from him. He wore white trousers that had been tight and were now beyond indecent. The top of his sex rose above the trousers and was visible because she had bared his chest. When she didn’t touch him right away, his gaze flew to her in alarm to find her pink, panting for breath. She knelt on the bed, and rubbed her thighs together as a betraying spot of moisture appeared on the front of her gown. She was aroused, and he groaned with the knowledge that he couldn’t touch her because this was about proof. It was about allowing her touch, not indulging his need.

Her hand crept towards his throbbing erection, treating it like a python about to strike, which wasn’t far from the truth. Then it crept slower still and he realized that she awaited his swipe. With a sudden rush she closed the last wee distance. She skimmed his length, measuring with a shy feather stroke of her fingertips. He writhed from a mixture of intense pleasure at her touch and intense pain from clenching against the release battering him. She closed her fingers, tightening her grip, and he thrust against the pressure applied just where he needed it.

She stopped but did not withdraw her hand. She stared at him with a glowing, puzzled expression. The question puffed from her lips in separate pants that he heartily wished were expelled a little lower. “All the women who touch you here get brushed aside. Nial, aren’t you going to swipe my hand away?”

He was silent for a moment and then shook his head no.

“Why not?”

“Love, there is one particular set of hands I have awaited my entire life. Those hands I won’t swipe away.” His navy eyes were filled with tenderness and love as he made the statement, fully aware that she would not accept it yet.

“Nial, are you saying…” she trailed off. When she spoke again, a hard edge colored her tone. "No. I must be barmy. You almost had me. You're good. You're very good. But I won't fall for it. I know how that goes. I make the naive suggestion and then you score with a harsh taunt you tell all your friends about. I told you before, I've grown up. You're just another frog. A great big, full-of-himself toad frog."

Amphibians again? He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs and decided to try once more. Only this time, he'd say it straight out. He'd say it and put it out there, without leaving himself anything to fall back on. After all, if he fell, he'd be alone, a plummet without end.

“Heather, my love, I am saying that you are my fate. I can promise you that I am yours to touch in any way you choose, at any time you choose, and I will never ever swipe your hands away.” His gaze was steady, but hers was nervous and darting.

She didn’t accept the truth of his words. Only time and his actions would convince her ultimately, so he lay impatiently, hoping her hands would return to him. She slithered over on the bed and spread her hair across him, moving to trail the strands over the pulsing head of his staff, mumbling, "If my hair doesn't incite the swipe, nothing will."

When it didn't come, she swayed her brown rainbow back and forth across his jutting organ. "Why didn't that work?" She whispered, starting to pulling her hair away. Then he thrust up on his heels, seeking the ticklish torment. She laughed and replaced her hair with the tips of her fingers, brushing the opening at the end of his sex as she felt a responsive burst of hot moisture from her own. She wet a finger and traced the opening and at the first wet brush a pulse of ecstasy escaped his control. She caught it with her finger. "I did this to you? This pearly fluid is your passion in physical form, isn't it?" She looked directly into his eyes as she slowly raised the finger to her mouth and suckled, unaware of her own low moan of desire.

The act was so unexpected from his lovely little virgin that it carried him beyond the control he had been trying so hard to grasp. He groaned, “Ahh God, sweetheart. I need, Jesus, sweet, I need relief. I …”

As he spoke he thrust himself into her hands, asking without words, helpless against a demand that had become a necessity. All words left him as her hands returned, measuring and pressing and squeezing in untutored, untrained abandon. He couldn’t anticipate how or where she would touch. He could merely thank his creator that she touched at all. His pleasure blazed from his eyes just before it emerged from his manhood. She played in the liquid as it spurted, using it to trace her initials on his belly – a possessive act he would have tolerated from no other female on earth.

When he caught his breath, she still played at her tracing game. Then he sat up. “You can carve your name in my flesh if you wish. Or shall we brand me instead?” He reached for her. “Come here, love. I would taste you again.”

He took her lips tenderly but his tongue soon sought entry to her mouth and tenderness dissolved to raw passion as he felt himself stir again. He smiled against her mouth when she dug her nails into his shoulders as she bit his lower lip. Her tongue rose to duel with his and he was lowering her to the mattress when she halted his advances.

"I have to go. Da is expected this afternoon and we will dine at home as a family tonight."

She was restless and antsy. He knew what ailed her, but dared not test his control by giving her relief now. As it turned out, there wasn’t time, for a knock came, followed by his cousin’s voice at the door. She stood, delightfully rumpled, and he sprang up with her, yelling as he did, “Boz, you buffoon, bloody well shut up for a minute.”

Nial leaned against the door, hating to let in the outside world.

She sighed regretfully. “I never got to see your, your… I only saw the top of it.”

At her boldness her face flamed and he chuckled. He tilted her chin and caressed her face with his tongue. Just before his lips met hers again he said, “Perhaps we can remedy that tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Join me for a picnic at sunset love and I’ll take care of you as well,” he promised.

“Take care of me?” She inquired, playing with his chest hair and lightly scratching his pebbling nipples.

“You’re feeling a bit angry and cheated, aren’t you? Like I scaled a mountain to see the peak and left you behind. I’ll fix that tomorrow. If you’ll come,” he said, aware that his world hinged on her response.

“Does your promise about not swiping my hands away hold tomorrow too?” She asked, confirming that he was right, they had a long way to go before she could believe in him again.

“It holds for all the tomorrows there are, love. Can I pick you up at 3?” He pressed for a decision, a promise. He needed a commitment, even if only to another meeting.

She nodded yes, and smiled and was still smiling as he walked her downstairs. He wore no shirt, had stains on his white trousers that advertised what they'd been doing, which is exactly what he smelled like. Her lips were swollen and clearly just kissed, her hair fell in wild disarray and her gown was wrinkled beyond repair. He walked her anyway, amazed that his feet actually met the floor and conscious that he wore a stupid grin he’d laughed at besotted friends for donning for years.

He was well aware that Boz missed nothing of their appearance, and he even knew that the bastard was barely biting back a hearty laugh as he opened the door and curried many glances from the passersby. None of the attention bothered him and if she had asked he would have gladly carried a banner proclaiming exactly what they just engaged in.

Compromising her was the least of his worries. He could seduce her body, but he couldn’t seduce her heart, her trust or her soul. For the first time in his life, he wanted much more than sex.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nial spent most of the next day in his room, pacing and willing the time away.

Separation from Heather felt unnatural, and had he been at home he would have put an end to it last night. Aye, he would have taken her from her bed and had her to a priest within an hour. Within two he would have been buried so deeply within her that neither would know where one ended and the other began. As roiled up as he felt, he knew that when his lady finally bore his name, he would be on her and in her morning, noon and night. The elders would complain that he was neglecting clan affairs.

He laughed aloud at that thought. Nay, the elders would not complain a bit. They would begin eyeing Heather’s tummy, assured that with the laird’s intense interest, she would sooner, rather than later, carry the heir they were so bloody concerned about. At the thought, he suddenly saw their bairns – a lad with hair of every shade of brown in the rainbow and Nial’s navy blue eyes, and a little lass with Nial’s black locks and golden eyes. His eyes filled with traces of moisture that felt so foreign that it was a moment before he identified his tears. He reached up to dash them away with impatience and glanced up to see a grinning jackal staring back at him.

“Do you never knock, man?”

“I knocked repeatedly. When there was no answer, I stuck my head in and saw you standing in the middle of the room in some kind of damned trance. What’s going on? We have not seen you all day,” Boz was concerned.

“I’m a wee bit impatient,” Nial admitted, “but I did not mean worry you.”

“Impatient? Ahh, there must be a planned outing with the fair Heather today. I wanted to talk to you about her. Considering how the two of you appeared when she left your room yesterday, and the stain on the front of your trousers, I have grave doubts that you are taking our plan seriously.”

“It was a bloody stupid plan. I don’t want Heather thinking I’m courting someone else. I don’t need her to be jealous – I simply need her to be mine. And yes, there is an outing today. I’m taking her on a picnic.”

“You’d better speed up your work. Rumor has it that her father arrived in town late yesterday.” Sedgewick waited for the meaning of that to penetrate, but finally decided that his kinsman was incapable of thinking about anything other than future conjugals.

. “Talk is that a number of the young bloods would like to take a trip down the altar with her. All of them have awaited the appearance of her father to seek her hand. You may find a line at the study when you arrive to pick her up for your picnic.”

Nial whirled and advanced with a green-eyed monster riding his shoulders and blood lust in his eyes. Boz held up his hands saying “not me.” The laird had to content himself with punching the wall. His fist made a nice hole in the plaster and he returned to pacing the room as his cousin left laughing.

******

Heather spent the morning anticipating the afternoon outing, She had mixed emotions about it, for she knew full well that she was not Nial’s fate. What was he up to? The man riding Sorcha may have been drugged. He said so and her memories and herbal knowledge made her believe the account. However, his confessed intent had been to drive her away. So Heather paced too.

“Let me get this straight. The man risked certain death to save you yesterday, and he outright told you that you were his fate, but you don’t believe him.” Viv said. "I admit, half Scot by blood or not, I'm too English to take all this talk of faeries seriously. Let's move on to a subject I do take seriously. What happened after you got back to Sedgewick’s house?”

Heather’s profuse blush was its own answer.

“Well,” Viv demanded a verbal response, more to needle her cousin than anything else.

“He let me touch him.”

“Touch him how?” Viv wanted details.

“Any way I wanted.” Heather wasn’t in the mood to provide them.

“As far as I know, you're the only marriageable lady ever given carte blanche to touch the handsome laird without getting the Maclee swipe. Or did he? Did he swipe your hands away?”

“Not yet.”

“How was it? You say Geoff’s kiss only inspired panic. How did touching Nial feel?”

Heather sighed before she plopped down on the bed to describe the indescribable. “It was like holding fire. It made me feel powerful and weak and achy and melting all at the same time.”

“But you’re afraid to trust him?”

“Seeing him with the black widow killed every dream an innocent girl had. He was my faerie tale prince and he was going to love me forever. When I saw him spending himself in that witch, all my dreams died. A big part of me died with them.” She twisted to face her cousin who had grasped her hand and had tears in her eyes, “So I came here to craft new ones. Now he’s appeared offering every fantasy I ever had on a silver platter. If I trust him and he doesn’t deserve my trust, I won't survive it.”

"You know I'm a strong believer in female power. There are pitifully few ways for a woman to be in control. More of us need to decide our own futures instead of simply handing them over to our husbands. If you could, would you give yourself to him fully? Would you know his passion as completely as possible, and let him teach you of your own?”

“I think I could never feel complete as a woman if I miss the chance to know Nial. But how can I risk it?”

“I have a plan. I have a business opportunity in America. It’s a new place where a strong woman can make her own way. I’ve made an investment there. With the help of a friend, I've located a gold claim in California. I will make enough money to start my own business and return here as an independent businesswoman in control of her own fortune. Perhaps I will even create a deceased husband. Then I can be a widow running a former spouse’s business. Such things have been done, you know. You can come with me and make your way in America too. So take your chances with Nial. Test him and when you are ready, know him in every way you want to. If he betrays you again, then you walk away and come with me and we start in a new place together.”

Heather drew in a breath and forgot to release it. When her cousin playfully punched her stomach, she gasped for air and said, “You would do that for me? I can jump off the cliff, knowing that I've a safe place to land. Well, I can as long as I keep my wits about me and don’t take Nial seriously. I can take the physical risk, thanks to you and I won’t get hurt too badly as long as I don’t trust him with more than that.”

Viv’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Well, if you plan to take the leap and grub with himself today, we better see that you are suitably garbed to inspire some really serious grubbing.”

About an hour after luncheon, Bonnie appeared. “There are several young men downstairs demanding to speak with your father. I think they all mean to ask for your hand. Your father is none to eager to speak with them. I believe his choice would keep you with us on Skye. So I’m here as your mother, pet. Tell me what you want.”

Heather’s smile held only a trace of sadness. “Need you ask?”

“He hurt you baby and if we had this talk yesterday I would've been furious that you would consider him again. Today is different because yesterday, he faced death without a thought of himself to save you. That is the ultimate act of a man in love. Trust me, having a man put you before himself is a rare experience. If you have the chance for a love like that it’s worth risking even the Maclee again.”

Sweeping to the door, Bonnie promised, “Carrick will put them off a bit. He seems anxious to see Nial, though assuredly not as anxious as you, my dear. The others will be a fallback. ‘Tis a smart woman who leaves herself an option to fall back on, and you have several. They are getting a bit contentious though. Our warriors and those of Laird Nial who accompanied your father are on standby to break up any battles.”

“Oh, surely it won’t come to that, Mother. You exaggerate,” Heather protested.

“On the contrary, when Carrick's choice and yours apparently, arrives and is allowed to whisk you away without a chaperone, I predict that blows may be exchanged. But my money is on the Highlanders every time.”

Heather crushed her Mother in an excited hug. “I get to spend time alone with Nial?”

Laughing as she exited, Bonnie proclaimed, “Indeed you do. I don’t know what passed between Nial and your father before Nial left for London in a tearing hurry, as I hear it. Whatever 'twas, Carrick is convinced that Maclee's intentions are above honorable. He’s positive that they’re set in stone or written on a faerie cloud.”

******

The Highland laird who usually led a fearless and bloody charge into battles he expected to, and usually did, win, acknowledged that nerves had trounced him this time. Nial approached the house, straightening the hem of his kilt for about the tenth time. He preened like the women trying to attract his interest. That shoe didn't fit so well now that it sat on his foot.

Nial planned his garb today with more care than he'd ever taken with it before. He wore full Highland regalia, complete with sporran. When he left the house with his fate on his arm, he'd be a Scot. His attire would remind her that they shared their cherished Isle of Skye. Not only that, but he wore his kilt in the traditional Scottish manner so his privates were getting an air bath. He disdained a coat, and wore a linen shirt with sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons open. If Heather wanted access to any of him, it was hers as was he.

His biggest fear about the outing was of the extent of his control. If she touched him as he guessed - hoped - she would, he didn’t know how he could hold out. If he saw her as nature made her, he didn’t think he’d have a prayer of doing it. He promised her satisfaction, but intended to give it to her short of consummation. He did not want to dishonor her before she was his wife, but had grave doubts about whether his resolution could survive those claws of passion.

The Butler answered his knock and escorted him to the back of the house where, true to Boz’s bloody sixth sense, five men waited in a line outside the study. Badgerton stood at the head of the line. At Nial's entrance, the others shifted uneasily. Geoff broke out laughing and his laughter grew in intensity, until he began nudging others with his elbow and they passed it on until the lot of them cackled.

Badgerton approached within a few feet. “Tell me, Laird Maclee, where did you get that fine purse? I believe my sister has one like it. All that talk of faeries and such, well I should’ve guessed they'd save one of their own. Are you a faerie? Do you wear the dress to give the blokes easy access?”

An older man appeared, also garbed in a kilt, and his stormy countenance would have convinced many to shut up, but Badgerton’s tongue sped ahead of his brain, as he gestured to Carrick. “You like them older, Nial? Tell me, which of you fine ladies puts it in the other? Or maybe you take turns. That’s it, share and share alike, right?”

Heather and Bonnie had started descending the stairs just before Badgerton began to speak. When they heard his outburst, they cast an alarmed glance at each other before they gathered their skirts and ran. Nial’s fist connected with Geoff’s face and then his stomach with enough force to double him over. A hearty kick sent the Englishman to the floor, where Nial held him by the pressing his shoe to the sprawled man's chest.

“You bloody ass. Your insult of the proud dress of my Highlands I’ll excuse as the product of Sassenach ignorance. Your insult of me cannot be taken seriously and I’ll excuse it as the product of jealousy, for I know you foolishly covet my Heather.”

The other man tried to rise, sputtering at Nial’s possessive reference, but the laird kicked him back to the ground, and applied greater pressure, this time directly to his throat. “But your insult of Laird Carrick, I’ll not tolerate. A little more pressure, just here and I’d snap your silly neck like a twig. If I keep the pressure up here, you will die just the same, but you will have time to make a few painful gasps for breath before you expire. So on the whole, I believe it’s here I shall stand.”

Carrick, already well pleased at Nial's defense, smiled when Heather followed her mother into the room. At the sight of his lass, the fierce light of battle in Maclee's eyes transformed into another light entirely. Heather ran to Nial, cutting a fine figure in her simple gold gown, which matched her exotic eyes. It was closely fitted to her body and worn off the shoulders.

Badgerton's harsh gasps for breath drew the MacIver's attention. "You'll have to decide what to do with him, lad. I've fought at your side and I know that many a finer man than this vermin has met death at your hands. Shall this pathetic Sassenach have the honor of being next?"

Heather’s fingers played through the sprigs of black hair on Nial’s forearm as she leaned closer. “Let him go. I do not wish today to be marred by death or violence.” She put a hand to Nial's cheek, and he pressed against it with half-lowered lids. “Please, for me.”

Nial lightened the pressure a bit but didn't let the other man up. “Heather, my love, the bastard insulted your father.” The light of true alarm flared in Geoff’s eyes as he glanced quickly at the other Scot and for the first time made the connection.

“Please?” She slid a finger across his lips.

“Laird Carrick?” Nial inquired.

The MacIver didn't rush his answer. “Let him go, son. I’ll just count myself lucky that my grandchildren will not have blood that stupid. Besides, my daughter is right. ‘Tis not a day for bloodshed.”

At Carrick’s request, Nial moved his foot. Badgerton lay clutching his throat and gasping for breath until Nial kicked his back, saying, “Get up, you English weakling.”

“I’ll help with that,” Carrick volunteered, opening a side door. “Lads, please remove the offal from the room.”

Several Scottish warriors entered and quickly disposed of all of the suitors. As the room cleared of competition, Nial breathed easier and flushed when he realized Laird MacIver correctly interpreted his relief.

Carrick merely suggested that they sit and chat for a minute before his daughter and the Maclee left. Nial's eyes flashed the question and MacIver smiled and nodded. This time, it was impossible to mistake the relief on Nial's countenance and he didn’t bother to look the least embarrassed. “Thank you, sir,” he said with heartfelt sincerity.

Vi and John entered the room and voiced immediate protests to Carrick’s message that the pair would enjoy their outing without a chaperone.

Nial tucked Heather close to his side on the sofa, but very soon had reason to regret that fact. Her fingers traced circles over the palm of his hand and caused his eyes to heat in passion, which Violet identified without trouble. “Just look. He’s ready to go at her right here in the midst of her family. Surely you will relent and at least allow Peter to chaperone?”

As Heather traced the pulse that beat too fast in his wrist, Nial shifted in his seat. She winked at him. Unable to fix his attention anywhere else, even to the conversation in which he had such a personal stake, he leaned close to her to whisper, “I’m dressed in the old way today, love.” Heather’s eyes began smoldering, as she understood the meaning of his words.

“Nial,” Carrick said, “It would help convince Vi and John that I’m not a mad old Scot if you could try for a moment not to look like you’re about to ravish Heather on the sofa.”

Suddenly serious, Nial stood and tugged Heather up beside him. He placed his arm around her waist as he faced his future in-laws. “Laird Carrick and Lady Bonnie, I believe that both of you know that I love your daughter beyond all else.” Heather gasped, and Nial halted to press a light kiss to her lips.

“In fact, being wiser than I, you may have had an inkling that Heather was my fate at a time when I was too stupid, too blind, or just too full of myself to realize it. I screwed up royally and betrayed her and lost her trust. Both of you appreciate what your English relations don’t. When I say to you that she is my faerie fated love you know that my intentions are beyond honorable. You know that I have committed myself to your daughter body and soul, forever.”

He looked in Heather’s eyes as he continued. “Yet she remains unconvinced. She seems not to realize the power she wields o'er me and foolishly expects that my interest is temporary. Well, perhaps I deserve to have to prove otherwise.”

He faced Carrick, man to man. “Sir, if the proof to your daughter takes the form of the physical, then I’ll do my best not to dishonor her. I can make you no promises for I believe you also know that, to quote a family curse, “she sets the claws of passion to my manhood,” Vi gasped at the plain words, but Bonnie and Carrick didn’t bat an eye.

“Whether or not I know Heather fully before our union is blessed by the church, I can promise I intend to wed her. I will take her and make Scots' vows without her consent, if I must, though I'm trying to convince her otherwise. I can't and won't lose your daughter. She holds my soul and is my only path to happiness. I hope to win her consent, but I claim Heather as my wife today.”

Carrick’s eyes looked suspiciously liquid, and Bonnie shed tears unabashedly. After a couple of tries at clearing the knot from his throat, the MacIver finally found his voice. "Son, being a proud Scot myself, I know how difficult 'twas for you to bare your soul like you just did. I also understand how much courage it took for you to do it here, before a group containing folks who don't understand the commitment you just made. My brother-in-law still expects me to make some threat about what I'll do if you play fast and loose with my daughter. I'll not insult you that way for my wife and I do understand. You've claimed my lass as your mate. So be it."

Nial wiped away the tears falling from Heather’s eyes with a finger he kissed as he smiled down at her tenderly. It didn’t seem enough, so he lifted her left hand to his mouth and kissed her ring finger. Claiming wasn’t as firm a commitment as he wanted, but it was a start.

“Lad, you two can leave whenever you choose.”

He walked over to Carrick and the other man returned his hug. "I couldn’t ask for a better Father-in-law.”

Laird MacIver patted his shoulders and replied, “You’ll do, son.”

Nial gathered Heather close and guided her towards the closed carriage that would take them to the grounds of one of the estates his cousin owned. This one was near London and had a lovely lake surrounded by dense woods. On the banks of the lake grew a weeping willow. At Nial’s instructions, via one of the Sedgewick messengers, the grounds were being prepared with an ermine spread lying beneath that weeping willow, a great deal of champagne, and a basket of finger foods, suitable for hand feeding.

He hadn’t gotten settled on the seat before he questioned the wisdom of the closed carriage Boz insisted on. He suspected his cousin hoped to avoid a public scandal, but giving his lady such a private venue allowed her to concentrate on testing him. The silly lass still expected the Maclee swipe, and he had begun to wonder if they would be christening their first bairn before she realized it wasn’t ever going to come.

The passionate determination in her eyes called his master member to attention before the coachman spurred the team.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If she only had a wee bit of time before he tired of his guilt, she might as well enjoy it. In fact, she'd need some hot memories to warm up the cold nights once she and Viv left to find their futures. So she decided to play. She grinned up at him as she began opening his shirt buttons. When the white cloth lay open, she ran her fingers through his chest hair, styling it until it spiked wildly, and then she reached up to tousle the black locks on his head.

She jumped to the seat herself from him, sighed and got an eyeful. "You're almost a perfect doll."

"Only almost?" He asked, the hard edge in his voice a cue to his annoyance.

"Take the shirt off and clasp your hands behind your head," she said, pushing her luck deliberately, intentionally.

He tilted his head and his navy eyes narrowed. "Giving orders already, sweetheart?"

"Saying no now to save yourself the trouble of having to swipe away my hands, baby doll?" The sharp edge in her voice didn't match the traces of pain darkening the gold of her eyes.

"Listen here, I don't.." He halted, gave a deep sigh and said, "Damn. How much of my amorous history do you know?"

"It's quite extensive, but I pride myself on being thorough."

"You've heard that it annoys me when females try to treat me like a human doll to be arranged and admired."

"I've heard and I thought it might save you a lot of work if we skipped the seduction you're not much interested in anyway." Heather's sharp edge became a razor and the traces a flood.

He slid forward on the seat to jerk off his shirt. "It's another bloody test. Actually, whether you know it or not," he said, tossing the shirt on the floor, "I get extra credit for this one. It's a double."

"Why.." she paused and licked her lips, the sight of him exceeding the allure of any fantasy the girl who'd always loved him ever had. "Why is it a double test?"

"Because I never take orders from women," he replied, before he leaned back on the seat. "Clasp my hands behind my head like this?" He asked, positioning himself as instructed.

Gad but the man was lethally attractive. She chewed her lower lip as she gazed at the contrast between the black fur matted on his chest and the wild black hair clustered in spurts under his arms. She reached in her bodice for the handkerchief she'd tucked there earlier. "It is warm in here, isn't it?" She asked as she wiped the perspiration from her brow with a trembling hand.

"The heat is growing within you, love. You're becoming aroused from looking at me. It's flattering as all get out but it's so much more than that. It's also hot as hell watching your nipples poking out against the thin cotton of your gown."

Under his burning eyes, she started panting, causing her gown to slip further down her shoulders, baring an additional enticing inch of her creamy breasts. Her gaze shifted to his lap, and as though she commanded it, he spread his legs wider. The fit of his kilt changed dramatically under her scrutiny.

"You're aroused, aren't you, Nial?" She asked, surprised. Perhaps it was genuine, he was genuine and her fairy tale love was coming true. Maybe he really was her Prince Charming and...Stop it, you twit, she ordered herself. "Or are you? Is it some sort of trick or illusion?"

"There's one way to find out, you know."

She called his dare by rising from her seat to kneel by him. As he sat with legs splayed to accommodate the growing pressure of his arousal, she flipped up the skirt of his kilt, pulling it to his waist. Dear Lord, if this were an illusion she'd take tricks to reality any time. She stumbled back to her seat. Her eyes blazed while her face hardened with the mercilessness of intense desire. Under her stare, his blood flow changed, engorging his proof until his skin stretched tight and his balls turned to stone. As she panted, he shifted in his seat. Her tongue came out to rim her lips while she made noises that sounded like a panther's purr. Soon, he couldn’t sit still at all and he thrust against the air, clenching his teeth to prevent a plea for her touch.

"Thank God, we're here," he said, jumping up as the coach jerked to a halt. His kilt flipped down when he rose but he made no move to button his shirt as he helped her out of the carriage. Why fix clothes that would be abandoned soon enough? If gossip about their appearance today circulated to London’s ton, then so much the better.

He led her through the forest until they arrived at their bower of love. He seated her on the ermine throw and perched on his heels beside her. “I hope you’re not hungry for food right now lass. After the desire you inspired on the way here, I would feast on more heady stuff.” He lay down beside her and turned her to face him before he took her lips with passion that put Geoff's garden groping to shame. He nibbled her lower lip until it opened, and thrust his tongue inside to lick hers with light, easy strokes. The urgency from Nial didn't scare her at all. On the contrary, she clutched his shoulders and pressed her breasts to him, rubbing them to seek the friction of his spiky chest hair.

He broke off the kiss. “I’m afraid that perhaps I wasn’t honest enough in explaining all the rules. I get the same privileges you do, love.”

Dazed, flushed and panting, she murmured, “You do?”

“Oh yes, sweetheart. I get to touch too. Starting right now,” he said as both hands came up to cup the fullness of her breasts through the gown. He tested their weight and closed his eyes like he wanted to memorize their shape. She kept hers open wide, refusing to miss an instant of the memory that would have to sustain her forever. His palms slipped up the full globes until her hard nipples stabbed them.

"At least you still need me for something," he muttered.

She swayed back and forth, rubbing her erect nipples against his palm, which he kept cupped and available, but only available. He made no move to touch her or to deepen the play.

“Nial,” she moaned, placing her hands around his, “touch me.” He sat panting and not moving his hands, although she gripped them to her bosom fiercely. Horrified, she realized that her big udders had disgusted him. She sat up and started to spring to her feet, but she never made it.

He tackled her, coming down over her on the throw. "I know how to arouse you. I know how to satisfy you. I even know how to bloody satiate you. But I don't have any idea how to make love to you. I've never made love to anyone. I don’t want to screw this up.”

Suddenly his hands were all over her breasts, especially on her full, aching nipples and she could only moan. His fingers abraded the pebbles through the fabric, lightly and then harder before he started pinching the nipples and she heard herself purring. He took her right breast between his hands and shaped it before he sucked it inside his lips, rimming it with his tongue. She writhed beneath him and he applied full suction that soaked the front of her gown before he applied his teeth in delicate bites. She held fire and panted, feeling an itch spread to her private parts that grew to a burning and a steady pressure. She wiggled and shifted and he moved his mouth to her other breast. He pulled back to gaze in her eyes as he took each palm and pressed down on the erect nipples while he swiveled that hard manhood she'd seen in the carriage right between her legs, right where that burning itch tormented her.

He levered himself up on his arms, panting and clenching his face like he was in pain. She'd have asked him but she noticed his nipples. They were hard like hers. She reached up to tweak them between her fingers and when the hard nub peeked out at her she licked them, darting back and forth from one to the other. All the while, his navy eyes focused on her chest. She licked harder, using her teeth to try to distract him, but it did no good. He gazed at her, right where she didn't want his eyes, like he was mesmerized.

Without warning, he groaned and grabbed the strapless gold fabric, rolling it down.

"NO!” She screamed, folding her arms over her udders. She tried to turn to her side but he surrounded her and she couldn't move.

“Sweet love, I would see the charms hidden from my gaze. Can I not take the gown down?”

Take the gown down? He wanted her to wobble her udders at him? Yeah, he'd have something to tell the lads on Skye then. They'd laugh when he described his narrow escape from the haggish cow. The tears trickling from her eyes turned to sobs and she clenched her ugly anomalies. Then she recalled her hair and she thrust up her other hand, wishing heartily for a bonnet. When she closed her eyes to hide their hue the tears poured from under her lashes. Still, she felt him looking at her, felt something that seemed so close to real concern, real caring and she badly needed both.

He sat over her, stroking her forearm. “Sweet, when I spoke as I did to your Father I did not mean I would force myself on you. Do you fear I will rut you like a beast if you allow me to gaze upon your bare charms?”

She shook her head no. Then she started laughing although she continued to cry. “Hardly, Nial. You know very well that if you look at my udders rutting will be the last thing on your mind. No matter how kind you're being to me now, overlooking my ridiculous hair and my strange eyes, the udders would be more than you could take. You would run away from me, not walk, run. But that's your goal, isn't it? You'll have a mighty entertaining story to tell over the next dram of whiskey with the lads.”

She continued to cry and try to hide her hair and chest and eyes as he perched above her, totally silent for long moments that confirmed her belief in her diagnosis. When he spoke though, he nearly sounded puzzled, baffled almost. "Is this something you actually believe? Bleeding buggers, was this absurd delusion the reason for the whole bloody disguise? That damn garb you hid inside of is responsible for this whole mess. Without it, I'd have thrown you over my shoulder and toted you to the priest the day of the fair."

She barely heard his words because she was beating his chest, trying to push him away and discovering that all those rippling muscles didn't push real easy. She persisted until he finally caught her hands. “Let me go. I appreciate how kind you've been. You’re a good actor but there is no need to try to continue the charade. Just go back to Liz Montwell and leave me alone.”

“Actor? These last months my tarse gets stiff every time I think of you but I can’t find release with another woman because I only want you. Actor? My need for you has made me useless for anything and anyone else.”

“Months?” She asked, jarred out of her certainty by his words.

The fact that he went on as though she hadn't spoken was her first clue that she was seeing the famous Maclee temper erupt. No one could act or pretend when they were this irate and as he began screaming and muttering obscenities, her heart thumped with joy and a smile grew on her face.

“Lady, I started having wildly erotic dreams about the woman who was my fate just about the time you showed up and the elders started pressing for marriage. You covered every inch of flesh from your head to your toes and refused to look me in the damn eyes. I decided that what was between us had to be friendship because you weren’t the panther that gave me wet dreams every night and caused me to spend every other bloody waking moment half erect. Then when I saw you unclothed at the lake you ran from me and I was terrified that you would leave my life without my ever finding you. The only time I saw your amazing gold eyes was when you were running away from me in the garden.”

“Nial?” She tried to draw his attention, but he was too wound up to stop, and his rage was real, whether or not she could believe his startling claim that he had fantasized about her for months.

“Just who the bloody hell is Liz Maxwell anyway?”

“Montwell. You danced with her at Almack’s.”

“Well damn, that was all arranged by Boz who had some stupid idea that I should pretend to be your friend and…..”

“Nial!” She yelled his name this time and got through.

“What?” He snarled as he finally looked to see that that she had pulled her gown down. She displayed her anomalies with something akin to pride. Everything but his eyes seemed to freeze for a long moment that felt like forever as she discovered pride didn't last long. But then again, she didn't really have all that long to wait because his rage changed to passion in such a tiny span of time that it was fascinating to watch the transformation. His lips trembled and he wasn't graceful at all as he lurched for her bare breasts. He dove for them, and filled his mouth with one as he filled his hands with the other, all the while muttering something against her breasts that was difficult to interpret. The amazing things his mouth did to ease and fertilize the ache in her nipples distracted her from trying to make out the words that rumbled against her chest.

She finally made it out though. He was saying, “Mine, mine all mine.”

It was her last coherent thought for quite some time as he worshiped her breasts with tender touches that led to harsher grasps and with light caresses of his tongue that grew to cheek hollowing suckling. Finally, he sat back, looking at her with his navy eyes sparkling with some deep masculine pride she'd never imagined she'd see from him. Even her fantasies hadn't stretched to this. Then something darker entered his eyes and he snapped at her. “Heather. Has any other man seen these? Did Badgerton see them? Answer me.”

Talk? Now the man wanted to talk? She could barely breathe let alone think well enough to form words and he wanted to hold a conversation. Then his words penetrated and she understood that he was jealous of Geoff. This handsome sensual man desired and pursued relentlessly wanted reassurance from her. She teased a bit, “How about you? Can you say no other woman has seen you?”

He was not in the mood for teasing. “Damn it, answer me.”

She still panted and her breasts hurt and she'd been close to something only to have him stop. She arched her breasts up at him, but he refused to take the hint, wouldn't touch her until she spoke. She felt more like clawing his too-bloody-charming eyes out by the time she did. “No, Nial. No man but you has seen my breasts yet. Happy? And again I ask, can you say the same?”

“Yet?” He reached down and began to vigorously massage her, continuing until she thrust her womanhood forward, shouting her need for more without words. “Yet? Never, my love. No man but me shall ever gaze upon your bounty. I will kill any man who dares to behold your magnificence. Should any dare touch, he will pray for death before it finds him.”

He slithered downward to reach under skirts, and as his fingers found her he smiled a smile full of sensual promise. "You're drenched for me," he whispered and his fingers found the sensitive hidden nub as he said, “Sweet, I can’t say no woman has seen me before, but I can promise that no woman will ever see me again.”

He watched her face as his hands played her with the skill of the virtuoso he was. She knew it and resented it while just now, she could only feel grateful that he knew exactly how to touch, how to rub and when to rub harder. When she got close she seized control, rubbing up against him, swaying to get the fingers where she needed them and holding them there, right there. Then she reached it and vibrated at the edge of some perfect harmony and felt the beat of the melody deep inside. She heard herself screaming his name. It was the only word she could recall and it vibrated in her head until it emerged through her lips. She bit them then to hold back the words of gratitude that wanted to follow.

When her sensibilities returned enough to allow her to look around, she saw him lying on his back, with his elbow sprawled across his face. It was a gesture she of all people couldn't mistake. He hid from her but she'd hidden enough to know you couldn't hide everything. Her eyes didn't have to travel too far down to locate the exact cause of his distress. His kilt was tented obscenely. While she watched, his groin made an aborted thrusting motion that he checked before he cursed and tensed from head to heal. Before long, he'd half thrust again, mutter a worse oath and tense again.

Reaching a decision, she stood abruptly and called to him.

"I can't eat anything right now. You go ahead," he growled, apparently assuming she'd gone for food.

"Nial," she called, "You're too brave to hide and I have something more interesting for you to see than food. Are you going to look or do I need to come over there and ..... examine you again?"

He finally opened his eyes. She stood a few feet away, stark naked with the sunset glowing behind her shoulders. The wild profusion of sandy, chocolate, auburn, Jesus, every brown shade in the rainbow of her hair was matched in the fur that guarded her mons. It was a sight straight from his most erotic wet dream but it wasn’t for some other man. It was his and she was his. He made it to his knees and crawled the short distance, not stopping until his mouth met the mons hair still drenched from her release. His tongue lapped out, heading towards her cleft when she reached down and grabbed his hands and started tugging him to his feet.

He followed her tug even though he shook all over like he had the ague. Her fingers went to the tie on his kilt. His mouth opened to say this wasn't a good idea, but the words that emerged were “Sweet merciful Jesus.” It might have been a prayer or a plea, but it wasn’t no. Her deft hands had him bared in a flash. His kilt fell and he didn't make the motion of his hands or say the syllable that would have stopped her. They stood bared to each other for the first time. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling before his back met the tree.

Heather quirked a brow in silent inquiry.

“My love, I can't take you now. I will not dishonor you before we take our vows. You deserve to walk the aisle a virgin, and I will not take that from you. So please, toss me my kilt and we will both dress and have some dinner and then I’ll take you back.” His tone was cajoling as he cupped his hand to catch the garment she didn't throw.

She was amused that he didn’t trust himself enough to walk forward the three or four steps it would take to reach his kilt. His weakness imbued her with strength and for the first time she understood the female power that Viv ranted about so often. This strong-willed leader of men was at her mercy. Female she was and virgin she might be for a few more moments but she held sway over the warrior who could have broken her with one hand.

“If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it.”

“That would be a bad idea, love. If I get that close to you, I fear its not my kilt I’ll take.”

She smiled and spread her legs. He stumbled and grasped a limb either for support or to restrain his progress. She slowly took her index finger and wet it in her mouth. He shook his head and reinforced his denial with his words. “No, baby. Don’t.”

She knew where she needed him so she took the wet finger and slowly trailed it down through her brown rainbow, slowly making the trek to the plump outer lips of her cleft. She let the finger play there and smiled in surprise that she could rouse herself, but that wasn’t the goal. “I need you here, love.”

She didn’t know it was the first time she'd used the word.

Nial knew. "Love, you called me love. Thank God and his angels and all the faeries in the universe and mostly, thank you, love of my life, bearer of my soul." As he murmured his gratitude in a spiel of words that became softer and more incomprehensible he leapt forward, pushing her to the ground. There was nothing sophisticated or worldly about the man above her now. This was the primitive warrior. All the masks were tossed away, and she saw him shaking with the force of his urges as he positioned himself above her.

Still, he paused, and the effort he made to take the time to ask her the question was visible. “Are you sure?”

She smiled and said yes and he surged inside only the tiniest bit before he stopped again. This time, the pain of waiting throbbed in his voice as he asked, “Do you love me, Heather?”

“Yes, Nial. I have always loved you.”

As though he waited for that, he surged forward, unable to take the time to prepare her more, and the mutter he uttered changed from words of gratitude to words of intent. "I must take you, brand you, mark you as mine, all mine."

At the instant he changed her from virgin to woman, his eyes locked with hers. “I love you Heather, my fate, my fantasy, my mate, my life.” She told herself that she would only believe those words for this single moment. Still, they poured like a healing salve over the rips and tears in her soul. Despite that, she grimaced from the pain of his invasion, from the breech of her maidenhead. He saw the grimace and halted, closing his eyes for a long moment before he started again, accompanying his now gentle thrusts with laps and nips of her breasts so that they sailed over the sun together.

Afterwards, he gathered her close, and whispered his love for her and his dreams for their future. Then he caressed her hair and asked, “Don’t you think we should set a wedding date, love?”

Set a wedding date? Her insecurity showed in her eyes as she replied, “I haven’t agreed to marry you, Nial. You're getting ahead of yourself.”

"Am I?" He asked in an odd tone as he tucked her chin under his head to hide the steely determination in his eyes that proclaimed otherwise.

Over their lovers’ feast, which he insisted be eaten in the nude – he spent more time looking at her than eating – he brought up the subject of her reticence to allow him to see her breasts. She nibbled on a strawberry as he asked about it and her hand shook, which he saw. She thanked her maker that he couldn't see the quivering mass her insides became at the inquiry.

“Nial,” she said, reluctantly meeting his eyes, “I’ve always known I was odd, ugly, strange and inferior. When we traveled to Kilcuillin that time, I'd convinced myself that you would be the man who could overlook the odd outside and appreciate me as a person. The me inside.”

“I don't know who convinced you that you were odd, but they used the wrong word, love. You are not odd, you are exotic, extraordinary, unique.” She stared at the fruit in her hand, which still quivered. She closed her eyes and wished that he'd leave the subject alone.

“Darling, do you remember what I first called you at Almack’s?”

“You called me a panther.”

“Yes. Most women are like tabby cats. They are rather cute in the same way. A panther is a cat too, but it’s nothing like a tabby. A panther is beautiful in an exotic, sensually enticing way. You are a panther.”

She looked at him, framed now in moonlight, and saw that he was serious. He thought she was exotic and beautiful. A panther. Suddenly, she felt like one, sensual and exotic and mischievous, in the way of such regal felines. The moon twinkled above them so she knew it was late and they should have been gone long ago. But she didn’t feel like leaving, she felt like Nial. She rolled onto her back, with her golden eyes shining wildly and said, “Make me purr.”

“Gladly,” he said. He kissed her tenderly before, with the glint of mischief in his eyes too, he slid down between her legs and put his face to the wild mass of brown hair guarding the seat of her passion. She gasped and tried to push him away, but he only smiled, tilted his head up to wink at her, and returned to his forbidden feast. She stopped trying to push him away after a couple of the pointed forays of his tongue. Soon she panted and urged him on, grasping his head to keep him there. He brought her to a peak and then entered her as she still throbbed and still said his name, over and over.

They returned home with the greatest reluctance.

“This is complete idiocy,” Nial said savagely as the coach neared her Aunt and Uncle’s. She had sensed his turn of mood earlier but hadn’t commented.

“What is complete idiocy?” She steeled herself for the words that would call the most wondrous day of her life a game or worse, a mistake.

“Returning you here is idiocy. You are mine and you belong with me,” he snarled.

“You’re moving a little fast, Nial.”

“Fast? If we were in Scotland you’d have had my name last night. This night and every one that followed would find you in my arms and in my bed where you belong,” he sputtered. “I’ll play your game, love, but not for long.”

He walked her to the door, and paused for a lengthy farewell that grew so heated she pressed her face into his neck and told him she could feel the press of his need against her. Then she swiveled wickedly and he stepped back, holding her face between both hands. "If you keep that up, my love, I'll toss you over my horse and carry you across the border to the nearest kirk." He sighed and asked, “I presume you will insist on going to the Bascombe ball tomorrow night?

“Of course. I haven’t had a chance to test that Maclee swipe yet,” she said with a tilted smile that only pretended to tease.

"Don't you think you'd have gotten it by now, sweetheart?"

"No," she said with a determined quirk of her brow. "But then many hands play over you in private without getting that swipe, don't they? The hands of loose women, deprived widows and even a witch or two precede mine in private play. A public touch differs from all that for it marks possession - a female form of branding that no Maclee laird tolerates."

"Again, I remind you love, every Maclee laird, including this one, will tolerate that female branding from one set of hands," he said, holding her hands to his lips. "If not for my own vast stupidity you would already know that I am yours and only yours to possess and brand and mark at will."

"That is an easy claim to make in private. 'Twill be intolerable in public for a Maclee laird trained since toddling to allow only one set of hands such liberties."

“Then, love, I will be by to pick you up, ” he said, consigning himself willingly to an evening of unrelenting public arousal. “Lass, one warning about the ball.”

“What warning, Nial?” .

“I’m not English.”

“And just what does that mean, my braw Scottish laird?”

“The English rules that bind their ton do not bind me,” Nial said before he turned and left, still muttering about the idiocy of leaving the woman whose place in the world was under his arm and close to his heart.

It was, perhaps, better for his peace of mind that he didn't hear her quiet whisper agree with his sentiment. "Those rules don't bind me, either."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The following evening, Heather dressed to arouse.

She didn’t consider herself a debutante, and, as Nial said, she wasn’t constrained by the rules here anyway, which was fortunate. She wore red, a deep, dark sinful red that picked up the auburn tones in her hair. The neckline started at the outer curve of her shoulder and circled her breasts. In the cleft of her bosom it dipped in an oval so low it nearly reached her naval. It was daringly low, even by ton standards, and with the aide of her corset’s thrust, her udders swelled over the top of the gown, giving the illusion that they might overflow.

Wispy sheer red sleeves swirled about and revealed her entire arms, if she moved just so. A daring insert of the sheer red fabric at the sides gave glimpses of her leg. The garment had no back to speak of because the fabric started barely above her bottom. With it she wore the rubies that her mother had insisted on buying, saying, “We must celebrate your entry into the world, my darling daughter, ” upon their arrival to London.

Her pelisse, the most important accessory, she donned in her room when Viv dashed in, saying, “Nial is here and he looks yummy enough to eat.” She didn’t want him to see the gown before they arrived at the ball because he would pretend to be jealous. She had to force him to admit that he played a game before her silly heart actually believed that “Heather the hag” could be his fated mate. She suspected he felt guilty for his earlier actions and treatment, but guilt could never build a strong marriage. If she wed him, she would be destroyed when Nial met his fate.

Best to nip this in the bud, so tonight she prepared for battle. When he saw her outfit at the ball, he would pretend to be upset, because the role he played required that response. He would likely even pretend passion, as he had last night. But regardless of his absurd claim that Heather would never know the Maclee swipe her behavior tonight would force the truth.

She walked downstairs sedately, and tried not to look impressed at how glorious Nial looked turned out in formal black. This one had been tailored for him. He had looked grand in the borrowed attire he wore to Almack’s but tonight, he looked dangerously sexy, and altogether too enticing. She could not allow his appearance to undermine her resolve. Like yanking a bandage off a wound, it would hurt less to end this quickly. No matter that she'd be miserable away from him, she'd be destroyed if she spent years deluding herself into believing she had a happy marriage. Especially after he tried to resist the natural urges he would have towards his fated mate. Guilt would fade and she would become the jailer he hated.

******

She didn’t realize how long she spent standing at the foot of the stairs gazing at him but he surely did. Abruptly, he said, “Bloody almighty hell with this,” and strode over to take her in his arms for a passionate kiss in full view of her parents, her Aunt and Uncle, Viv and Peter. The outbreak of coughing, throat clearing and even a high pitched sneeze from Viv didn’t deter him. Nial didn’t lift his mouth from hers until she forgot anyone else was in the room.

His mouth left hers and trailed across her cheek to her ear, where he nibbled as he whispered, “Lord I missed you, love.” He rested his forehead against the top of her head.

She whispered, “It’s only been a day.”

“Sweetheart, this day lasted decades.”

At another loud bout of coughing from her Mother, Nial lifted his head with a grin, placed both hands on Heather's shoulders in a message of possession and said, “Lady Bonnie, you really should have Heather mix you a tonic for that cough.”

To Carrick, he merely raised a brow in silent inquiry, and did not move until the other man lifted a brow and shrugged his shoulders. The exchange was the equivalent of an hour-long verbal battle between an Englishman who anticipated marriage vows with a beloved daughter, and her father who decided that at least the right man compromised her. Both men were Scottish enough to convey all that needed to be said without a saying a word.

Nial placed a hand to her waist and urged her towards the door, saying, “We will see you at the ball.”

Peter rather admiringly tossed out, “I’m not sure I’d bet on that.”

Nial replied, “If it were up to me you would be exactly right.”

Nial guided Heather to the carriage and helped her inside. Then he sank to the seat beside her while he gathered her close in one motion. His mouth was on hers before the door closed. The coach jerked to a stop far too soon. Nial lifted his mouth, saying, “We could let Peter win his bet,” but she smiled and shook her head no. She was bound and damned determined that she would get the Maclee swipe if she petted him enough, publicly enough.

He grinned at the futility of her quest. He’d drop his trousers and let her bring him to peak with her hands in full view of the English snobs if it took that to convince her of the truth. She couldn’t provoke him into swiping her away, but he anticipated enjoying every minute of her provocation. How far would his bold lass go?

Nial tried to remember that he'd been grinning a second ago when they got inside and she tossed her pelisse to a footman. Heather's garment made her the living embodiment of sensual enticement. No hidden messages here, it was all front and center. Between the cut of the dress and whatever blasted chemise she wore, not only did her breasts look ready to pop out, they were squeezed together so that the cleft between them said ‘come suck me.’ His mouth went dry in his desire to lick that cleft, and keep licking until his mouth drenched the silk over her nipples and turned them into turgid peaks. The sight of her in that gown changed his blood flow so quickly he had trouble standing upright.

Someone jostled his elbow as he stood gaping at her like a schoolboy, and he turned to find three other recent arrivals enjoying the view. That awoke Nial’s possessive instincts and he stepped in front of his lady to block their view.

“Gentlemen, I have one question. Would you prefer to wear your privates home or leave with them stuffed in your mouths?” He spoke in a monotone, but his expression provided the emphasis – 'twas the one he wore before he thrust his sword into an opposing warrior. A single glance at his face let them know that his statement was a promise and not a threat. They decided no view merited the price he demanded.

Nial dragged Heather down a quiet hallway. He propelled her into a room that turned out to be a study and kicked the door closed. He shoved her to the wall and pressed forward until his erection ground into her. Then he spread his hands spread on either side of her head to support himself, to imprison her, or both. He didn’t look happy. He looked turned on and pissed off to be turned on.

“What are you wearing?”

He leaned down to get so close so that his eyes filled her vision. “How dare you display yourself like this!” He cupped each breast, squeezing as he spoke. “These are mine. Got it? Mine. They are mine and you are mine. I don’t want other men looking at what fate, nature, God and I, most of all I, think, believe, and damned well know is intended for my eyes alone.”

The outrageously visible milky white expanse of her breasts distracted him, and aroused him, moderating his motions to sliding, gliding caresses that soon had her panting for breath. With each pant, the globes lurched up and he flicked his thumbs over the pebbled nipples unwillingly. He closed his eyes and sighed, with an expression of dismay at his vulnerability to her. With a grimace, he forced himself to step away, taking three steps backwards. At the third he nearly stumbled over his own feet, floored anew by the seduction of her in that dress. It begged a man’s hands to slip inside to feel whether the fruit could really be as ripe as it appeared.

Begged a man’s hands. Begged any man’s hands. Nial's jealous rage rose again and he clung to it, nurturing it because he needed it to intimidate her into realizing her grave error. He'd not tolerate his lady wearing attire that transformed her into temptation on the hoof. He would work on intimidating her any second now. First, he had to stop leering at her. How long had it been since he blinked, anyway? Distance. He needed more distance. He just wasn’t far enough away. He crossed to the other side of the room, with his back to the door.

He frowned and a tic started in his cheek. Nial didn't say a word. He simply stood and looked and glowered. Finally, Heather moved, taking a step forward, but she halted in her tracks when he said, in a quiet tone threaded with threat. "Don't move an inch. Not a single, bloody inch."

"Or what?" Heather asked, striding forward. “Is this supposed to scare me?”

At her words, his frown grew fiercer.

She put one hand on her hip and gestured towards his grimace with the other. “Am I supposed to believe that you actually give a farthing what I wear?”

The door opened and two men started to enter but stopped, wide-eyed on the threshold, male approbation sparkling in their eyes. Her gesture had widened the neckline of her dress, until a great deal more flesh showed and the tip of one pebbled nipple peeped from beneath the garment.

One of the intruders put on a seductive smile and walked forward. “Hello there beautiful. I’ve really got to get out to more ton functions, if you're a sample of what they offer these days. I’m Bart Lyon, the Baron of Rangeford, and you…..”

Nial delivered a right hook aimed at the man’s overly seductive smile, which disappeared quickly enough. As he delivered his physical message, he said, “She is someone you need never think about again. If you forget the fact that you saw this display you might live long enough to regret never knowing her.”

Rangeford blotted his bloody lip but paused to laugh. “Forget such a prime show, mate? Not bloody likely.” He accompanied his words with motion, heading towards the enticing female. His steps took him out the door instead thanks to Nial plowing him in that direction.

The other gentleman opened his mouth to speak but shut it again when the Scot turned to him with such a distressed expression that he paused.

Nial said, “For the love of God, man, we haven’t much time until someone else sees her!”

Bascombe lifted his right brow. “And what a tragedy that would be, I gather.”

“Go and get Boz’s handkerchief. Now!”

"Now see here, I don't take orders from anyone, anywhere and certainly not in my own damned home." The Englishman looked aghast at the mere notion.

"Bascombe?" Nial asked and at the man's nod, he said, "Aren't you hosting this ball to introduce your new Scottish bride?"

At the reminder, Bascombe nodded and smiled. "Yes, indeed. I do have a certain partiality to things Scottish just now. That fact alone, wouldn't motivate me to help as quickly as another -- I recognize the look of a man who has just gone under for the third time, having recently been in that very condition, myself. Boz? Do you mean Sedgewick?”

“Yes, man and hurry. For pity’s sake close the door,” he yelled as the other man left the study in what was, for an Earl, a ripping hurry.

The Earl turned back, but Nial threw himself against it, yelling, “Never mind. I’ve got it. Go man!”

Bascombe rushed through the ballroom and paused for only a moment at his wife’s frown.

Miranda asked, “What on earth are you doing? Where have you been?”

Bascombe replied, “Sorry, love. I’ll explain it all in a minute. I’m in a tearing hurry to find a duke to tell him that an insane Scot in my study demands his handkerchief.”

Miranda looked at him as though he'd spoken in a foreign tongue. He promised again to give her the full story later, and tore off, having spotted his target.

Boz stood with Bonnie and Carrick and tried to look like he meant it when he assured them he was certain Nial and Heather had been detained. Bonnie didn't look like she believed a word out of his mouth. Of course, it's tough to pitch an excuse you don't buy.

“I tell you, Carrick, he nearly ravished her in the house with all of us watching,” Bonnie’s motherly dander still prickled at the memory.

Surprisingly, Carrick, who should have been irate, soothed his wife, patting her shoulder as he said, “Now, sweet. I’m sure Heather is fine.”

“Fine? He looked like he was going to eat her up, right in the foyer for goodness sake!” Bonnie said, "I mean, I'm understanding and all that but enough is enough."

Boz couldn’t help choking on a swallow of wine as Laird MacIver bit his lip to keep from laughing at his wife’s choice of words. Sedgewick would bet the profits from his next shipping venture that his pal had already enjoyed that meal.

“What’s so funny? Carrick MacIver, are you trying to tell me that you would not care if some man is cavorting with your unmarried daughter?”

“Honestly, sweetheart, so long as that man is Nial, then I have no worries. It would be easier to toss the Cuillins into the sea than to change the intentions of a Maclee laird who has found his fate. Honorable? There is not a word quite strong enough to describe that man’s determination to marry our daughter. I just choose to consider him my son-in-law today and view his claiming her publicly as enough for now.”

“Hummph. A claim does not a wedding vow make,” she turned to her husband, between anxious glances at the door, rounding up a good head of steam that was interrupted by the hurried arrival of James Finchley, the Earl of Bascombe who panted for breath from his deft sprint.

“Quick, Sedgewick, give me your handkerchief.”

“I beg your pardon,” Boz protested. “In a mansion this size you must have at least one of your own.”

“Not for me, for the crazy Scot. Don’t know why it had to be your handkerchief but…”

“Nial is here? Why in God’s name does he need my handkerchief?” Boz found the request bizarre, but just then he spotted Rangeford’s jaw, which was being cooed over by a lithe blonde. “Is Nial hurt? Did he get into a fight with Rangeford?”

Lady MacIver demanded, “What has he done with Heather?”

The sight of his bride whirling by in a tall man’s arms distracted Bascombe, and the duke had to nudge him to remind him of the topic at hand. “Lord preserve me from ever being afflicted with the malady called love. James, damn it James!”

“Oh, Sedgewick. Yes, look, the crazy Scot is perfectly healthy, although I can’t say the same for Rangeford. Apparently, Bart’s interest in the tempting brunette armful was too much for him. Anyway, the Scot is in the study, and I believe he may actually be holding the door shut. I am quite confident the brunette is with him, because she wasn't leaving his sight – at least not while she looked like that. Now if you will excuse me, I must go remind that chap holding my wife that she is taken,” Bascombe said, wandering off with a determined look.

Boz hurried away to the study, with an amused Carrick and a worried Bonnie hard on his heels. He tried the door but sure enough, it opened a scant inch or so before a body leaning against it slammed it back shut. He knocked hard, almost hard enough for his knuckles to crash through the wood. "Open the door, you idiot.”

Nial opened it an eyes-width and peered outside. Then he extended a hand through the crack. “You didn’t have to come yourself. I just need your handkerchief.”

Shaking his head in astonishment that his cousin thought he was just going to amble away in the face of such outlandish behavior, Sedgewick got one foot in the crack before Nial could close the door. “Back away, buddy, we’re coming in.”

“We,” did not penetrate. He heard only that another man wanted to see his lady while there was entirely too much of her to see. “Hell, no you’re not coming in here. There is no way you’re going to see her until I …”

Boz pushed his way forward, and the MacIvers followed him into the room. None of them could get to Heather, because at the first entry, Nial shot across the room to stand protectively in front of her.

The gesture didn’t sit well at all with Lady MacIver. “What have you done to my daughter, you bloody oaf? Why do you need a handkerchief? Is there blood? Have you hit her? If you've hurt her so help me I don’t care what chaos it will plunge Skye into, I will kill you with my own hands.”

Nial’s temper had snapped long ago. “My Heather is physically fine and if you were a man insinuating I would ever lay an angry hand on my mate I'd toss you out the window in little pieces. So you better back off. In fact, I've got a few questions and you and your husband damned well better have the right answers. What in the name of all that’s holy possessed you to allow her to leave the house looking like this? Tell me lady, did you encourage her to display her wares in order to have every man in this building beating a path to seek her hand?”

That possibility carried the younger laird back to his nightmares. He glared accusingly at Carrick who gave up trying to pretend not to be amused. The older man grinned while Maclee growled, “I can promise you that Heather is mine in every way a woman can belong to a man and…”

“Nial. Shut up,” Heather’s voice emerged from behind him. “You’re embarrassing me.”

He ignored her to continue to berate the couple, and after hearing her daughter’s voice and having some assurance she was all right, Bonnie joined her husband in his grin.

Nial wasn’t through though. There would be no misunderstandings about this. “So lady, if you think to add some fancy English title to the family tree let me disabuse you of that notion. You let another man see Heather, speak to her, or God forbid, court her and I’ll take her so far away none of you will ever lay eyes on her again.”

Bonnie had calmed enough to speak. "I know from personal experience that a Scot in love can be as prickly and possessive as a mother grizzly bear guarding her young – and as dangerous. I'm trying to remember that you love my daughter and restrain my impulse to hit you over the head with an inkwell, a desk chair or perhaps a nice heavy book." Bonnie eyed the heavy volumes on the third shelf of the bookcase longingly.

“Answer me lady,” demanded the grizzly.

“We don’t object to your courtship of our daughter. I admit that I did not see what she was wearing before she left the house but I’m confident she wouldn’t wear anything improper.”

“Indeed?” questioned Nial, who moved aside so that the others could finally see Heather, even if none of them could get to her. “Then how do you explain that garment?”

Carrick looked shocked. Bonnie looked a little surprised.

Unfortunately, Boz experienced an absolutely male moment of sensual appreciation before he collected himself enough to shutter his gaze. He was fast, but not fast enough.

“Bloody hell,” Nial said, raking back his hair before he leapt over to his cousin to throw a punch, but the duke warded him off by waving his silky black handkerchief like a flag of surrender.

Softly, as he handed the cloth over, Boz said, “You need to gain some control. You damn well know you don’t have to worry about me. When she leaves this room is another matter. Men are men, and you can’t expect them to act like turtles. So long as appreciative looks is as far as it goes, you’ll just have to cram your fists in your pockets and put up with it. Okay?”

Nial nodded but didn’t speak. Speech was beyond him. He strode over to Heather and pulled out his own black silk handkerchief, which was a twin of his cousin’s. He turned his back to the others to stuff the cloths down the neckline of the gown. The fingers trying to arrange the cloths kept grazing her nipples, so Heather flushed beet red but still responded helplessly to his touch each time.

Heather watched him displaying all the signs of a man beset with jealousy. She smiled sadly. "We'll get to the truth tonight one way or another. It may take more than I thought though. I hadn't expected your talent to extend this far. You’re good, Nial. You’re very good.”

“No, we’re good together. If you’d just let me get you out of here to somewhere private I could work on reminding you that I don’t need any help to want you in the most hellishly constant way imaginable.” As he took her mouth he mumbled against her lips, “Those claws of passion never let me rest, sweetheart.” He kissed her like a drowning man grabbing his lifeline. He nibbled on her lower lip until her mouth opened and his tongue dueled with hers, thrusting and parrying, imitating and arousing the part of him that needed to thrust and parry with her so very badly.

The kiss went on and on, and soon the other three were more than a little uncomfortable. This time, all of the throat clearing and coughing in the world didn’t work, so Bonnie finally stepped over and tapped him on the back and he lifted his head to reveal eyes clouded with desire that blinded him to all else.

“Heather,” Bonnie said, reaching for her daughter’s hand and pulling her around Nial. Then she removed the cloths and tossed them on the floor. “If you ever tire of being a laird, Nial, I would not recommend that you go into fashion.” She led her daughter toward the door, saying that they were going to the powder room. Heather gave her mother a small smile of gratitude at giving her a few moments away from Nial’s overpowering presence. It was not to be however, as he followed on their heels.

To get to the powder room, they had to skirt the edge of the ballroom, and after about four steps men surrounded Heather, clamoring for her attention. Nial stepped forward, took her hand and led her away without saying a word, unless a growl counted. The light of battle in his eyes announced his hope that someone would be stupid enough to step close to his lady again. The duke and the MacIver followed and exchanged a comment about the unusual dose of wisdom among the men of the ton that evening.

When Nial rounded the corner holding Heather with Bonnie trailing just behind, they nearly bumped into Geoff. He wasn’t afflicted with the rare wisdom that had arisen so unexpectedly amongst the other men, and blocked their progress. “Heather, my sweet. You're a vision of loveliness. Your charms make a man ponder the possibilities.” Then he grabbed her hand to lift it to his lips, but Nial snatched it back and planted an elbow in the bounder’s ribs. The elbow had him gasping for breath, and out of sorts enough to allow Nial to escort the ladies further down the hall to the door of the powder room.

By then Badgerton had recovered physically, but sadly was still no wiser, for he strode toward Nial with clenched fists, saying, “Heather will be mine and you had better not lay so much as a hand on her, you bloody heathen Scot.”

Laird Maclee squared his shoulders and looked the other man in the eyes. "Let me state this clearly enough for even a silly fop to understand. She is already mine in every way a woman can belong to a man. We heathen Scots tend to take what we want, and we’re damned possessive about holding tight to what is ours. Make a move towards my lady and it might be the last you make on this side of the grave.”

Boz took Geoff’s arm and physically drug him out of harm’s way. Sedgewick tried to reason with his friend, but Geoff refused to listen. “I am telling you that Heather is not for you. She is his, and if you don’t leave her alone he really will kill you. That was not an idle threat.”

“She can’t want him. He’ll drag her back to beyond nowhere and install her in some musty old castle and expect her to start breeding little heathens. I’ll keep her in London and give her culture and all the whirl of activities each season. His boast about having known her is nothing but a desperate gambit of a man who knows he has no hope.”

"He doesn't lie about his possession, " Boz insisted, but the other man still appeared unconvinced. "Watch them on the dance floor. Lips lie but physical proximity doesn't."

The men watched the pair and Geoff's certitude that Heather retained her virginity took a few knocks. The posture the couple assumed on the dance floor was anything but traditional. Nial gathered her close and her hands started around his neck, but rested there only a second before she reached up to stroke his hair. That seemed safe enough, but when her hands played to the top of his head and he dipped down to accommodate her, his eyes opened wider at the feast of her breasts fully open to his rapt gaze. He snapped his eyes shut against the lure but his willpower was weak and his craving was strong. He opened them again, resentful at his inability to resist the sight that would only torment him more.

As though his groan were a signal, her hands dipped down to his coat, and she licked her lips as she slowly unbuttoned it to slip her fingers inside where they began to torment his nipples through the thin linen of his shirt. Her light stroke awoke them to tighten and pucker, begging for a firmer touch, but she contented herself with teasing strokes, and as his involuntary arousal grew he drew her closer to his heating groin.

The music showed signs of ending, and Geoff broke away from Boz’s restraining hand, saying, “I am going to break this up and get that bastard away from her.”

Boz shook his head again at the stupidity of fools in love as Geoff appeared at Nial’s elbow as the song changed.

“I believe this is my dance,” he said.

Nial knew he was on a short fuse but he really didn’t want to make more of a spectacle of himself than Heather already had planned. Even so, there was not the slightest chance that any other man would hold her on the dance floor tonight when a male’s superior height gave him a view of treasure he'd already claimed. “No,” he said and prepared to twirl away, but Geoff reached out to try to stop him.

“Since you lack any grasp of etiquette, I will do you the favor of informing you that you are only allowed three dances with a lady on any given night. You are one third through dancing with her already, assuming she would ever allow you to do so again,” Geoff gloated as he advised the other man that society's rules made his claim temporary.

Heather liked Geoff and tried to avoid the coming scene. “It’s quite all right. I’m fine, and you have no need to concern yourself with me.”

“On the contrary, my lady. Since your parents are either too naïve or too incompetent to teach this untrammeled heathen any manners, I must step forward to do so.”

Nial appreciated the fire of temper in Heather's eyes at the insult to her parents that the boor apparently thought would go unnoted. He didn’t appreciate the man’s interference, and said, “As you have pointed out several times tonight, I am a heathen Scot and proud of it. One of the rules of our culture is that a man holds what is his. I can assure you that I will hold Heather very closely tonight and every night after tonight until there are no more nights to count.”

Geoff tried reason, “Heather, do you realize how soon the ton will have the two of you betrothed if this continues?”

Nial answered for her. “Heather has given me the most precious gift I have ever received, and I will fight to the death to keep her with me always.”

The words shocked the would-be suitor and Heather’s failure to contradict the claim caused him to step back. Maclee whirled her away, the other man already forgotten, as he steeled himself to be strong enough to face the public show she planned in her vain attempt to gain the Maclee swipe. Before the night was through, every person in the room would see his desire, be able to measure his need and all would know he danced to this ladies’ tune. Well, all save the lady herself who seemed to believe he would turn his world upside down on a whim.

No man danced to a ladies' tune because he willed it. Rather, he did it when it was the only song he heard, the only melody he could follow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nial’s steps guided them to the opposite side of the floor, far away from where the lost expression on the other man’s face called to his greatest fear. He tried, and failed, not to think that there but for the grace of God go I. He wouldn’t go that way because he wasn't bound by their rules about who could do what with whom and how often they could do it. He chose his rules and if one kept him from his fate, it was a rule that would be discarded.

Heather felt his sex stretching between their bodies, and tried to ignore it but sighed with pure female longing. The friction reminded her that her female power emerged only in the arms of the man she worked to drive away. She had no choice if she wished to preserve her sanity and his future. She had to provoke the Maclee swipe that would show his grand performance for the acting it was. Only one lady had immunity from the swipe - the faerie fated love destined to spend forever with the consummate lover who held her with such pretend passion.

Her hands slipped between their bodies, this time going to the buttons on his shirt, only nominally covered by his now open jacket. His hands continued to caress her back without pause. Heather’s touch, anytime, anywhere, was completely different from the intrusion that he felt with every other female who made free with his person. No rules of propriety would keep him from the woman he held. She stared into his eyes as she opened the top button, and paused for a noticeable interval.

“It’s okay, my love,” Nial said in a tone already too threaded with desire. “I’m all yours. You can touch anyway, anytime you want.”

Her confusion showed in her eyes but she opened the second button and a froth of his black curly hair emerged. She paused to toy with it, tickling and teasing interspersed with light jerks. His eyes darkened more. He felt each tug as a separate pulse in his manhood. When her hands went to the third button, they shook a bit. He made the mistake of looking down at her chest to see that only her stiff nipples kept the fabric of her dress from sliding off her breasts entirely. Red silk closely outlined those thrusting nipples that begged for his touch, and his mouth.

“Ohh love, you do make it hard for a man to keep his resolutions. Your need calls me but I won’t answer. This is your show,” Nial said, thinking that he would be the one on display, but the performance was hers to direct.

Two more buttons revealed his golden chest entirely, all the way down to where the thick tufts of black hair dwindled into a fine line and vanished into the pants working to contain the expanding load. Nial whirled them and the candlelight glistened across fine beads of sweat highlighting muscles honed in battle. A blonde English princess dancing with another man reached out to touch. In the blink of an eye the Maclee swipe swatted the delicate hand away so quickly that had Heather not been looking she would have missed it.

She stumbled in the steps of the dance and he inquired in a tone so guttural that she barely understood the words. “Are you okay, love? Heather?” He asked, carefully hiding his amusement at her stunned expression.

“I’m fine,” she gritted out between lips that wanted to tremble in amazement as they strained to cover teeth that wanted to take a big bite out of any one of the gaping women who kept reaching out hands that were swatted away.

Her hands trembled badly as she reached up to fasten the buttons. The tremble overcame his resistance and he did reach out at that point, tilting her chin up and looking deeply into her eyes. She had no practice at hiding her feelings. Her misery shone clearly in the gold about to turn molten and now her hands shook so badly that she was on her fourth attempt to get a button into its hole. He whirled her outside to the terrace and then further, to an area where high hedges provided minimal privacy.

He found a bench beside a small fountain and pulled her into his lap, shifting her sideways so he could see her as they spoke. Her tears fell freely as she breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. He had no clue what upset her, but this was his first attempt to understand a woman. Although he'd rather take on a legion of warriors, he was determined to stop her tears.

“Heather?” He murmured the question as he reached down to kiss away the tears. His motion seemed to cause more tears and he clenched his fists, wishing for a threat he could subdue in a manner he understood. He hated the plaintive note in his own voice, but could not help it. “Heather, love, talk to me. What is it? What upset you?”

“You don’t know?” She asked in disbelief. “You know, and I want you to stop it.”

He recalled his hearty amusement when one of his warriors complained that his wife seemed upset and he didn't know why or how to help. When Nial asked why the warrior didn’t just demand that she tell him the problem so he could fix it, the man laughed and said, "Just wait till you wed, laird." The clansman said that all of the emotions seething inside a woman could draw a man in until he felt like he danced in quicksand. He’d laughed then, but now he felt the slimy grasping mess trying to pull him under, if he made just one misstep.

“Heather?” He inquired again rather plaintively and somehow the lost little boy expression she could see him trying so hard to achieve pissed her off. She leapt up, the light of battle fired anew in her eyes, and drug him back inside and immediately to the dance floor. Nial had no idea what he’d done to make her cry or to piss her off. The quicksand held the upper hand.

She stood a half step away and an evil light glowed in her eyes as she recalled that she had only begun to play with his chest and hadn’t gotten to her favorite part of it yet. She took her right hand and licked it, slowly, giving it long laps of her tongue, before she took the wet fingers and flicked them over his nipple. Concentration on her upset had eased his arousal, but her caress twitched him to awareness again. She repeated the motion with her left hand, and then, covered only by the sketchy protection of his jacket, reached up and began circling his nipples while she made a humming sound that he felt as vibrations in his cock. Without rhyme, reason or pattern, periodically she would halt the circling and flick her fingers back and forth over the nipples that would have poked holes in his shirt had he possessed the sanity to re-button the garment while they were outside. By the time they were roused nearly beyond bearing, she began pinching the pebbles rhythmically. He tossed his head back, closed his eyes and surrendered to the irresistible urge to thrust in time with the rhythmic pinches. She toyed with him until he feared he would prove definitively, right on the dance floor, that a man could come from attention to his nipples alone.

When she stopped her play he breathed a premature sigh of relief. She caught his eyes and held them as she sucked her index finger into her mouth, slowly, a fraction at a time, until the whole thing was submerged and before she inched it out a fraction at a time. He shook his head no but she ignored the gesture and began sucking the finger in and out, in and out, with hot wet suction that traveled to his tortured tarse via that connection that had only grown stronger with time. He opened his mouth to speak or beg but what emerged was a panting groan, huffed in time to her suckling. When she withdrew the finger with an audible plop, the release emerged as a tiny trickle of milky white that escaped his control before he tightened every muscle in his body to damn the flood knocking at the base of his spine.

No gun or sword ever looked as threatening as that single finger she placed against his lips, rubbing it back and forth over the tight line with a smile that said he would surrender soon. Against common sense, against his damned survival instincts and way contrary to his pride and self-worth, he did, opening his mouth and leaving it parted for her pleasure. She put the finger on his tongue and it lay there like a bullet still hurtling through the air.

“Heather,” he said, the start of a sentence he couldn’t finish as the motion of his mouth when he said his name closed his lips. She moved her finger out of his mouth before she plunged it back in. He parted his lips slightly, unable to quell some vestige of pride entirely.

She reached up to his ear and pressed her lips against it as she made the wanton suggestion. “Pretend it's the part of me you attended so well yesterday.”

His eyes met hers for a shocked millisecond before her finger became her plump hidden nub, moist and needy as it had been at the picnic. He plunged it into his mouth, rimming the base with his tongue and groaning as he seized her wrist and pulled it out to bite the tip of her finger. Another burst surged and he tightened too late to prevent it all. The drop hurt more than it helped. He pulled her hand away because he was at the end of his rope, ready to toss her skirts up and take her here, now.

She smiled sadly at the confirmation. She'd pushed nearly far enough. The Maclee swipe would come for her very soon. She must gather her courage and force herself to follow through. Then the truth would arrive, openly and irrefutably. Armed with that resolve, she cocked her head to the side and licked her index finger, up and down like a candy cane. She took that wet digit and placed it on a wild tuft of black hair that sprouted in the center of his chest. She traced that hairline down, inch by inch, slowly, between his nipples and into his navel. She followed it until it trickled to the thin line that disappeared into the top of his pants.

He watched her take him and seize control of his body with a single damned finger. His breath came in irregular huffs that amplified his small, nearly soundless moan until it sounded like a throaty purr. His surging tumescence needed her touch so badly it rose to meet her damnable digit which rimmed the aching head without grasping it, without reaching into his pants and damned pulling it out and guiding it to the release he’d have nearly sold his soul for. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as she traced the outer boundaries of his desire, enflaming it without delving into it, without satisfying it.

An expression that managed to be simultaneously triumphant and defeated swept across her face as she watched the motions of his hands. She continued the teasing that convinced him the staircase to hell was infinite in duration. “Don’t fight it, Nial. I know you want to. Go ahead and then we’ll both know.”

“Go ahead? Sweet, it’s a mark of weakness for a man to do that when he is alone, much less in the middle of a dance floor.”

At his words she withdrew her finger, and he suppressed the demented urge to put it back.

She mumbled, “I’ll just leave you alone then, and…. What?”

“It is a profound sign of weakness for a man to become so desperate for release that he gets it from his own hand.”

“Gets it from his own….. It’s obvious that you are fighting the impetus to swipe my hand away and I am telling you to go ahead. Then we’ll both know.”

He brought both hands up to frame her face. “My only love, I know already. I’m trying to convince you, but you’re still uncertain and confused. I hurt you and betrayed you and I will do anything I must, everything I must, to prove that I am your destiny as you are mine. Why the motions of my hands? Because I’m ferociously aroused, painfully hard, and my hands fight the urge to relieve my distress. There will be no swipe, sweetheart. How quickly did the other hands get the swipe? It would have happened long ago.”

She refused to give up and narrowed her eyes to determined slits as she said, “The English lasses are not quite so bold as Scottish lasses, I’m thinking. At home, I believe every lass you danced with ended up trying to fondle your privates sooner rather than later. They always got the swipe.”

He didn't tell her how many so-called English ladies behaved as boldly as the lasses at home. It wasn’t her point. She still expected that she could do something to his body that would earn that swipe. This night was all about proof, but glancing at her wicked expression, Nial vowed that she would satisfy every craving she roused.

Her eyes sparkled like golden diamonds as she lowered her hands to cup his crotch. Her boldness intoxicated him as much as it astounded him. He hadn’t expected that his little Heather would follow through on her threat. Her adventurous hands circled his length loosely, sliding up and down, up and down. He moved his head from side to side and started mumbling portions of words and incoherent phrases. He arched his groin away from the touch he craved more than his next heartbeat.

His hands fastened on her hips with bruising force when she joined the measuring motions with words. “Hmm, what have we here? Your cock? Or do you prefer dick? It seems rather engorged, would you say it is engorged, Nial?”

“Christ yes,” he said, though his words were husky, inarticulate and barely human.

Her measuring grew harder, as she pressed and released up and down his entire length, and Jesus, she joined the motion with more words. “Ahh, what have we here?” Her fingernails dug in through the thin material of his pants to prod the two wet spots centered near the head of his cock. She leaned up to his ear and rimmed it with her tongue as she said, “Did you lose control baby, just a little?”

She fitted her silk-coated pussy to the damp spot over his dick and started to thrust, lightly, teasingly. He growled as he summoned resistance that was nearly beyond him. He wanted to thrust against her, needed to, damned near had to but he couldn’t thrust and clench and he clenched with all his might against the release crawling past his restraint, creeping up the base of his spine. His desperate struggle showed in his face, and suddenly she dropped her hands. He quickly led her away to a quiet corner where he managed to fasten a couple of the lower buttons on the shirt he couldn't summon the ability to tuck in. He gave up and rested his chin on her head and tried to regain some measure of control. He held himself nearly rigid against the pain.

He couldn’t open his eyes yet, but when he could finally speak, he said, “Just for the record, love, the graphic term for those spots on my pants is come. I’ve never come in my pants for any woman but if you hadn’t shown mercy just then, I’d have flooded the dance floor.”

She put a hand to his cheek at his words, caressing him lightly, compelled to wipe away the pain she caused. He leaned into her soothing stroke blindly for long moments. When he finally opened his eyes she searched them, seeking the soul beneath the polished glass. His navy gaze seethed with need, desire, and pain underscored by flickers of resentment. Yet another emotion shaded all the others, moderating their tone to allow control when none should remain. It looked a lot like love.

After a couple of minutes more he could stand erect, even though another part of him still stood erect as well. The time passed in silence as she discounted the emotion she couldn't confirm in favor of her last sight of him on Skye, which she couldn't forget.

“You’re good,” she said quietly. “I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not what it looks like.” His question was in his eyes, as he remembered she had used the same phrase earlier. Apparently, it was the key to a deeper thought.

He was about to question her when Viv wandered over with Peter. In the way of family, they decided to interfere simply for the joy of it and give the pair a hard time by breaking up their private party. Nial smiled slightly at Peter’s intent gaze that started at his unkempt hair and ranged to his untucked and partially open shirt and then down to the wet spots dotting the hard that still tented his pants.

Heather flushed but Nial remained stoic. Peter quirked a brow in inquiry and the Scot simply said, “I was proving a point to your cousin.”

Viv laughed. “It must have been an interesting point, at least. Unlike this gathering.”

“A member of the nobility who is not enamored of the almighty social whirl?”

Viv’s gaze was far away as she answered. “No, I’m not and I have never been. This is not my place, I’m afraid. Well, it is, but not now, not like this.”

Geoff wandered over, intent upon trying his luck at gaining a dance with Heather. Perhaps the presence of her family would moderate the laird’s boorish behavior. Boz, seeing Geoff’s arrival, made haste to join the group. Nial stepped behind Heather to wrap his arms around her waist. The signal should have been enough, but Badgerton ignored it to press forward, extending his hand as he inquired, “May we finally have our dance?”

Nial pulled her closer, pressing his spiked phallus into her buttocks in silent reminder that he passed her test. He opened his mouth to answer but she placed her hands over his and squeezed. He stilled, awaiting her response. Just before she gave it, her parents joined the group, so she said, “It is nice of you to ask Geoff, but actually, I am tired and I believe that our party was about to leave. Unless you would prefer to stay at the ball, Nial?”

“You are my party love, and you know I prefer our gatherings to be smaller and more intimate.” He stepped to her side, more than ready to get out of this torture chamber. “Shall we?” He asked as he led their party to retrieve wraps and the carriage. The others exited at the Standings mansion. Nial didn't get out, choosing not to display the erection fertilized to gargantuan proportions by hot anticipation.

He kissed Heather's hand and responded quietly to her, “I’ll see you, Nial” with a murmured, “Sooner than you think.” She didn’t quite hear him but needed to escape to the peace of her room to think about the evening too much to question him further.

After the group got out, Nial had the coachman drive him around the corner drop him off. He climbed the fence that enclosed a small garden and settled on a bench that had a view of Heather’s room. When he saw the light of a candle enter the room, he forced himself to wait several minutes longer. He circled the big tree behind the house with his legs and climbed up. He jumped stealthily onto the small balcony outside her room and peered in.

She sat on the side of her bed holding something in her hands. He identified the black and red cloth as a ladies’ lace-trimmed handkerchief, but could not understand the evil that emerged from it to batter him across the pane of glass he peered through. She shook it out straight in front of her and stared at it. It was then that he noticed the monogram and identified the “S” as belonging to Sorcha.

He suddenly remembered part of the night that nearly ended his future. The memory had either been obscured by the witch's potion, washed away in the alcohol he tried to drown himself in or simply erased as too painful to handle. It was what he knew she saw so he forced himself to go back and stand beside her at the hedge leading into the garden. He was naked and his dick pounded artificially induced lust into the black widow. Sorcha reached inside her bodice and drew out the cloth. She bent down to where her body held his and swabbed the cloth with the rancid refuse of their joinder. Then she tossed it to Heather, and Nial looked up, and Christ he smiled as she bent to pick it up. It was as she straightened that the glint of moonlight caught the gold of her eyes.

Heather put the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. Nial shouted “NO” at the top of his lungs as he opened and plunged through the window in a single motion. He shouted it again, completely forgetting the need for stealth in a race to get to her before it was all gone. He stood at the base of the window with his nightmare running through his mind.

Nial advanced on her and ripped the cloth from her hands.

“No, that’s mine. Give it back, I need it,” Heather insisted, reaching for the cloth.

“Why? My love, why would you hold onto this? Why do you need it?” He challenged her as she jumped up to try to grasp the cloth he held just out of her reach. His challenge brought her temper to the fore and she spoke without thinking.

“I need it as a permanent reminder that none of this means anything except that you’re carrying a boatload of guilt and that you missed your calling as an actor.” His face colored and he gritted his teeth. Good. Perhaps she had finally reached the man beneath the pretense.

What she'd reached was his temper. Tonight he'd subjugated his damned manhood to her need for proof. How dare she think it all make believe? The accusation thrust him beyond control, beyond tempering his words or his actions, beyond anything but making her satisfy the craving that she had stoked so publicly. By God, she had asked for it and she was going to get it – she was going to get all of it.

As Nial spoke he ripped at his shirt, scattering buttons. “Guilt? I felt extreme guilt - for about a minute. Then you bent over and the moonlight reflected the gold in your eyes and I felt nothing except the pain of the empty forever I had sentenced myself to without you.”

He ripped the shirt from his chest, but forgot that he wore a jacket and the sleeves of the jacket got tangled with the cufflinks that bore the emblem of his clan. Seething and beyond himself, he stepped on the jacket with a foot as he ripped it and the shirt off and tossed them on the floor.

Her eyes widened with some kind of fascination tinged with a wee touch of fear. She'd beckoned the male animal inside him and now that beast stood before her. Nial had cast aside the masks and pretensions of daily life. In the fury of metamorphosis, the beast controlled the man and it lacked the man’s capability to pretend or conceal. This was what she'd wanted but his response was far from what she expected.

Buttons were beyond barbarians too, so he ripped at his pants and tore them in his eagerness to free the most beastly part of him. Now completely nude, he turned and stalked to the fireplace, holding her eyes as he waved the handkerchief before him.

“This is not the truth. This was never the truth. This was evil, lies, drugs and artificially induced lust driven by an insane woman’s quest for power. She has gone to wherever the faeries banished her and I wish them joy of her torment. I burned her personal belongings and this scrap of fabric is all that exists of her on this world. And now,” he said with a flick of his wrist as he tossed it into the fire, “it’s gone too.”

He turned to her only after the flames turned the cloth to cinders. Cupping his hands around the staff that rode his stomach, he held it out and watched her eyes measure his turgid arousal. Nial awaited the moment when her breathing quickened, she flushed and her nipples pebbled against her gown. He had summoned the woman. Still he stood there, holding the poof of his desire out for her judgment.

His need throbbed before her - open, unvarnished and magnetically alluring. She could not look away from it. As she watched, his hand moved up and down the organ he held, and a single drop of liquid desire emerged from the tip. “Guilt, Heather?”

She stared at the pearly drop, male passion in its purest form. It couldn’t be imitated, manufactured or produced at will. The greatest actor on earth could not pretend the seething froth of animalistic urges that made the beast challenge her with his need and his desire and his…..The hand holding his phallus shook ever so slightly. Her gaze darted to his eyes, fixed on her in an unguarded, open plea for recognition of his love.

He hadn’t expected the switch in her attention. He was a man and a Scot and he couldn’t beg for anything, even the love he needed more than life. He hadn’t been able to hide the plea from his eyes, knew it was there, but expected her attention to stay focused on his play with his cock.

Their eyes locked and he flushed like a small boy caught in mischief. Like the plea, he couldn’t hide the flush at being caught. She was a woman and a Scot so she would scorn his weakness. She would expect more from her man. She could never respect, let alone love, a man who would lower himself to beg. Nial told himself that he could claim she misread his expression. He ordered himself to chase it from his gaze. But she was important to him – no she was necessary. He couldn’t live without her so his desperation overcame his will, and the plea became more open. The tremor grew more pronounced. Then he shamed himself as badly as a Scotsman could by saying the word out loud and more than once.

“Please. Sweetheart, please, I…”

His face showed how appalled he was with himself in the instant before he turned away, dropped his hand and headed for the window. He had to get out of her presence before he heard her laugh. He was at the window in a trice and lifting his leg to escape outside when he heard her voice.

“Nial, stop. Turn around.”

He stopped, but he couldn’t face her. He couldn't turn around but he couldn't leave. He stood there, gripping the window ledge with hands that trembled harder. He knew the plea in his eyes was now profound so he shut them, squeezing tight against the tears that threatened to emasculate him right in front of her.

He had one leg outside the window and one inside when he felt her bare breasts at his back, “Nial, I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

He turned but it was the beast that lunged for her. Male pretension would never have allowed the plea, and the voracious animal didn’t kiss her so much as lurch forward to take her mouth. He pushed her backwards until she landed on the bed. He fell on top of her, consumed now by the thought that the woman who played him until she made him beg would pay. She'd pay right now.

The man tried to return, briefly, pausing as the beast hovered between her legs. “I can’t wait. I can’t make this good for you.” Then he thrust, impaling her with his full length in a single surge. The beast was unchained and untamable. It raped and pillaged, and he heaved and plunged berserkly, need driving him to frenzy. Nial came alone, in less than a half score of thrusts.

The man reappeared, collapsing against the pillows with weightless arms, acknowledging his total shame. The man arrived too late because the beast had already had his way, taking her without tenderness or consideration and most certainly without consent. He had just raped the only woman he would ever love. He forced enough strength in his arms to crawl off of her and bury his face in the sheets. He couldn’t stop the tears that trailed from his eyes at the knowledge that the monster had devoured his future - but he could hide them.

“Nial?” She called, but there was no response. She said it louder, “Nial?”

He rolled over. As he had faced her with his shame, he must now face her with his grief. He would not add to his list of sins. When her father’s blade sheered his cock, leaving him to bleed to death upon the sheets where his crime occurred, he would face his due punishment with courage. He would not die a coward. His fists grasped the sheets as he widened his legs to allow her father’s sword full access to the ravening fiend between his thighs.

That brute lacked even the common decency to wither in ignominy. Monster that it was, at the sight of Heather’s bare breasts and still erect nipples, at the sight of the cream of his lust coating her rainbow of brown curly nether locks, it hardened anew. It would make a ready target for the blade.

“Why have you not called your father, my love? I’m ready,” Nial said, his voice firm and strong despite the tears that still fell as he faced entering eternity and spending it without his mate.

Heather started to doubt his sanity. Had she driven him too far? It had taken a little time for her dazed heart to kick in again. It took longer for her brain to function. So it was a bit before she realized that Nial’s shoulders shook with sobs. Perhaps her brain still wasn’t working right for she could make no sense of his words. Why would she summon her father? And more importantly, why was he lying rigidly still, clutching the sheets? Why was he crying? She finally believed him so this should be an occasion for shared joy rather than tears.

If she couldn’t make sense of her thoughts just yet, well, that was no reason to ignore her body. She knew what it wanted. He left her behind a moment ago and it was now her turn. She sat up in bed and crawled between his sprawled legs. He felt her motion but couldn’t face her again so he kept his eyes shut. But when he felt her tongue licking his traitorous sex, his eyes jerked wide open. Heather winked and bent to lick the ballocks that she'd stared at in fascination earlier.

Apparently she'd decided to torment him before she beckoned her father. Would she wait until his need was again rigid and uncontrollable? Perhaps she thought to lull him into believing he would reach satisfaction in her mouth, only to open it at the last moment to scream Carrick’s name and laugh as the blade severed his erect organ? He admired the deviousness of her plan, even as he schooled himself to resist.

But the devious wench bobbed down and took the head of his organ fully into her mouth just long enough for him to thrust once. He wasn't surprised to find resistance beyond him. He had been an idiot to try. His need for her was within her control. It had never been within his. As her fingers reached down to tickle his balls, he spread his legs to increase her access as he groaned and surged upward, seeking her tongue again. She curled it to a point and concentrated on licking the sensitive head and though he clenched ferociously he couldn't halt a pulse of ecstasy. She swallowed the salty drop, moaned and licked her lips.

He could tolerate no more. Truly, he couldn't allow her to take him so far that he would beg her father to allow his completion before his traitorous cock was severed. Another moment or two of this and he knew he would. Was it too much to ask to retain dignity and courage at the moment of death?

He shook his head. “Heather, love, I admit I deserve this but, I seek mercy in my final moments.”

Final moments? She raised her head to look into his eyes.

“Summon your father now. I would not be so far gone that I cannot retain the pride not to beg for completion before his blade severs my sex.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I’ve been trying ever so clearly to remind you that you left me behind and you owe me now. You really don’t seem to be taking the hint well. Why would I call for my father and why would he bring his sword? You’re not making much sense.”

He gave up his death grip on the sheets to prop himself on his elbows as he sat up to look her in the eyes. “Love, I lost control of myself. My only excuse is that I was overcome that you finally understood that you are my fate as I am yours. Then I went too far and… You’re going to make me admit it. Is that what you're waiting for? Does your father await the words? Well, I will say them loudly. I raped you. There you have it, the admission.”

She did burst out laughing, but as moments trickled by with only her laughter and no irate sire with a blade bursting in, he seized her shoulders. “Heather?”

“Darling, you got ahead of me, surely you did. But you didn’t rape me for goodness sake. In fact, I treasured your loss of control for it more than anything, gave truth to your words. Sever your sex? I think not, my fine laird.” She lay down on the sheets and spread her legs. “I have far better uses for it than that.”

It took a couple of heartbeats before her words penetrated, but when his smile came, it was brilliant. He still wore it while he made sure she caught up with him. She caught up so thoroughly, that she fell sound asleep, moments after the loving ended. He held her tenderly, loathe to accept the inevitable.

He had to leave as a token to a society he gave less than a tinker’s damn about. Ostensibly, he must creep away before dawn so that the servants didn’t bandy tales of his presence far and wide. In truth, he didn't care if the whole house knew of it. Indeed, he cared not if the world knew. However, he would not shame her further, so he would go. But he lay a few moments longer, still unsure of her feelings. She said she loved him, but she was still uncertain. Unwittingly, as he had frantically stuffed handkerchiefs down her bosom he reminded her of the events that brought her here.

Had he finally convinced her or did she still have a test or two up her sleeve?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nial took a boatload of teasing from Boz the next morning, which was not unexpected. However, when he went with his cousin to his club, he was astonished to learn that the public gossip was about an Earl who just informed his wife he intended to divorce her to marry his mistress. The private gossip of the sort women saved for other women – well that was a different story.

When he left the club to tend to some correspondence, he learned that the women of London had noticed his arousal, but only commented upon it in secret – or to him directly. A number made blatant propositions to take him up on what they thought he had been showing off. He rarely blushed, but by the time he arrived at back at Sedgewick’s his entire body was pink.

Heather overheard about seven conversations between women who could talk of little else but the “majesty of the Scot’s Highlands.” The man garnered enough attention before. It galled her that her actions increased the furor. She should demand that he never leave the house without wearing a banner that said “Heather’s property. Do not touch.” The number of women who wanted to lure him away daunted her and while she nurtured her insecurity, she ran into Geoff. She shared a cup of tea with him, and his open admiration bolstered her confidence.

Badgerton pressed his unexpected advantage. “The man lacks any sense of propriety. He made an idiot of himself last night, and everyone is talking about it.”

“Yes, yes he did,” she said, her current prickly frame of mood beyond fairness.

“Well, we can make up for lost time, Heather. Promise you will dance with me and have supper with me tonight?”

Thinking that a bit of jealousy would do the spoiled laird a world of good, she responded, “Why, Geoff, I would be delighted.”

That evening, she whirled around the dance floor in Geoff’s arms. She knew she looked her best in the moderately cut bronze gown because her dance card was filled. She tilted back her head to laugh at one of her companion's more blatantly admiring phrases, when Nial walked in. To say he was displeased would put it mildly. He stopped in mid-stride and glowered. The dance ended as he entered, and he sought his prey without delay.

His jealousy soothed her after the day she'd endured, hearing so much about Nial’s manly charms, and about how much each speaker wanted to taste those charms.

Maclee opened his mouth to speak but Badgerton beat him to it by holding up the dance card fastened to Heather’s wrist. “Apparently the lady has come to her senses. Every minute of her time is spoken for tonight.”

Diplomacy was a defining force of Nial’s nature. He was too direct for dissembling. “What is the meaning of this?”

She wasn’t prepared for the direct challenge. The fact that she wasn’t prepared indicated that she had been gone from home too long. The direct challenge would never have come from an English peer, but was typical of the brutal honesty of a Highland laird.

It took her a couple of seconds to respond, and her next dance partner waited at her elbow by the time she did. “I’m just having fun. At a ball it is perfectly fine to dance and have fun.”

He raised his brows and inquired, “Is it acceptable to flirt and touch as well?”

“Absolutely. Why do you ask?” Her nature would not allow her to back down from the gauntlet she had cast.

“I simply wanted to make sure the rules were defined. I will trouble you no further this evening then as your time seems to be taken with others.” Nial turned and walked away.

She followed her partner in the steps of the dance as she saw Nial approach Jillian Hunter, the vibrantly beautiful widow of Lord Lillington. The pair took the dance floor as the lovely widow openly assessed her partner.

Jealousy filled her to overflowing but Heather's honesty forced her to admit she brought it on herself. Nial had no need to seek out attention because it found him. As the evening progressed, he never spent an instant alone. Either he danced with one English flower or another, or stood in a circle surrounded by woman who undressed him with their eyes and teased him with touches intending to provoke.

She suffered miserably before the third song and the evening went downhill from misery to despondence. Nial kept his dance partners hands off his privates by generous use of the Maclee swipe, but allowed their touch if confined to areas above his waist. Heather saw red when one wench played with his hair, trailed fingers down to his earlobe, and then continued trailing them down to his hand, which she took and placed on her bosom. Nial glanced down and grinned. Heather wasn’t surprised that he was male enough to appreciate the view.

He didn’t toy with the woman’s breasts, but he didn’t remove his hand either. He simply left it where she placed it and glanced at Heather, with a question in his raised brows. As her eyes narrowed to slits, she shook her head no. Nial then glanced down to where Heather's dance partner’s hand lurked. It spoke volumes of her preoccupation that she hadn’t noticed the hand at her bosom. The challenge from her Highland laird was again like him, direct and open. The decision to share time with other partners would be as equal as the boundaries of what touches were permissible.

Heather removed the hand at her bosom with a sharply spoken rebuke and glanced over to see Nial do the same. At the rejection, the other woman’s eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled. Nial's gestures offered to end the dance, but his partner shook her head no and gathered him close again.

Heather and Nial changed partners again as the music changed, and she realized that he would match her dance for dance, allowance for allowance. Her current partner put her hand to his lips and she saw Nial do the same to the lady in his arms who looked thrilled with the attention. A kiss to the fingers during a dance was permissible by society’s rules, but Heather found her own to be more restrictive. She didn’t want Nial’s lips on any part of another woman, so she committed a rude social breech by snatching her hand away from her partner's mouth just after his tongue connected with her fingers. She learned how closely Nial watched when she saw him give a brief lick to the fingers he held before returning the hand to his waist.

Heather barely restrained herself from dragging Nial away from the other woman by the hair on his head. She smiled as she imagined dragging him away by a lower and entirely more painful grasp. With that thought, her eyes strayed to where every woman’s in the room had been at some point in the evening – Nial’s crotch. She didn’t realize how admiring her gaze was or how filled it was with her love as she surveyed the flat surface of his trousers, but Nial could hardly miss it. He tossed a warning glance at Heather, who realized that the fit of his trousers altered under the warmth of her gaze. He glanced to the woman in his arms and back at Heather who realized that credit would be claimed where it was not due.

She forced her attention back to her current dance partner, but did it a bit too late. The other woman smiled sensuously as she took two steps closer to cradle his arousal. It waned rather than waxed, but due to his proportions she didn’t know that. Nial sighed deeply and glanced at the fire in Heather’s gaze as he straightened his arms and backed away from the lady. He gave thanks to the faeries as the music ended.

Heather’s hand touched her throat, indicating to her next dance partner that she was parched. That left him no choice but to hie off across the room to the refreshment table. She knew the laird saw her gesture, for he missed nothing. If Nial were an English gentleman, he would have approached her. She paused, deluding herself briefly by anticipating that he would do just that. He remained leaning against the same pillar. Okay, she dealt with a stubborn Scot rather than an English fop. Nial would do nothing to ease her apology. Her own stubborn pride slowed her steps. Then she recalled the blonde cradling her property. The thought lent renewed urgency to her errand, and by the time she got to him, she ran. Her steps sped too rapidly at the end and she hurtled into him. Based upon the way he opened his arms to receive her, she didn’t think he minded that she fetched up solidly against him.

“Nial, I’m sorry. I made a mistake,” she said.

“A mistake? How so?” He asked.

“I shouldn’t have encouraged Geoff or any of the others. I should have saved all my time for you because you’re the only one I want to spend it with.”

“It made me wonder if you need an admiring throng or if my admiration isn’t enough because it isn’t me you want,” Nial returned her honesty with his own.

She had imagined that he needed the adoring attention of multiple women, a need she saw as his biggest fault. Seen through his eyes, even with Sorcha, he was the prey rather than the pursuer. How much could he enjoy that? After all, in a hunt the fox never had much fun. She blanched as she pondered his words. She had never seen herself as someone who needed such admiration but fault is easier to find outside than inside. Was she that insecure? Had she turned into one of those attention-seeking social climbers she abhored?

He saw her face change and spoke to correct his temperamental outburst. "Heather, I didn't mean that. You hurt me and I felt compelled to hurt you in return. Truthfully, you're the least selfish person I've ever known.

The first part of his words caught her attention. She tilted her head and her eyes sparkled in wonder. "I hurt you?"

"Only with you does pain boil up inside until it spews forth with words to hurt you in return. Your opinion matters. The collective opinion of the rest of humanity affects me very little."

She smiled. "Your words mattered to me because you matter too."

He cupped her beautiful face that still bore a trace of the introspective expression that his words caused. “Sweetheart,” he began, as his fingers feathered over her mouth, which parted in response. Then, a movement to the side drew his notice and he said, “Damn,” as he motioned to indicate that her next dance partner was returning in tandem with a blonde that he had promised a dance.

Nial ignored both and tilted her chin. “Had enough of the rest of the world yet, love?”

“I've had enough of all of them. But, I fear we are caught in a trap of my making.”

“Trust me?” He asked with twinkling eyes.

“Of course,” she replied with satisfying rapidity.

He winked. “I don't like traps. I don’t take to 'em well. By and large, traps are like etiquette, propriety rules and labels – they only contain you if you allow them to.”

Nial wrapped his arm around Heather and pulled her where she belonged – close to his side. You,” he indicated the man, whose name he neither knew nor cared about, “dance with her,” he said, indicating the blonde.

Then he ripped the dance card off Heather’s wrist and tore it into small bits that he tossed in the air. In his finest orator's voice he said, “Heather’s time and her dances are both spoken for. They belong to me.” He swept her away towards the nearby terrace.

A willing party to the escape, she followed his unerring lead towards a maze of hedges. At the center, a gazebo perched near a pretty pond. “It is beyond irritating that your instinct for locating such places is so well developed.”

Nial didn’t deny the obvious truth. Instead, he wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Don’t resent the lessons I’ve learned when from this point forward they will only be used to benefit you.”

“Just remember that from this point forward you are a one pupil teacher.”

He drew her into his arms and muttered against her lips, “So long as you remember that you are a one teacher pupil, my love. Would forever do?”

His lips took hers, and she didn’t think anything at all. His touch always took her to a realm where only feeling existed. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him as she took her tongue and licked the inside of his lips until he gave a low growl and tightened his grip on her waist.

He feasted like he starved for her and drew back to laugh at himself. "Love, you must think me a glutton. We were together last night and now I seize your mouth like I've fasted for weeks. I suspect that I could love you non-stop for a week and still harden to full staff because you smile, or because I catch a whiff of your scent, or because… Well, just because you grace my world."

"I feel exactly the same," Heather murmured before adding, "well except for the full staff part. If we change that to say, pebble to full peak, then I feel exactly the same."

He tilted her chin up to catch the mischievous twinkle in those golden eyes. "So noted. But only if you save the pebbles, the peaks and especially that wicked tongue of yours for me alone." He returned to feasting heartily enough to prove his claims of endless famine.

When he finally lifted his head, this time he motioned her to sit on the bench. He joined her and took her hands into his. She stroked his palm, noting that it seemed damp.

He dropped her hands and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. “'Tis hotter than the kitchen hearth out here.”

Her eyes narrowed curiously for it was a cool night with a lovely breeze. Then she saw that the hand wiping his brow trembled, and she shifted uneasily. What was this about?

He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and reached for her hands again.

“Heather,” he said in an uncertain tone. He squeezed her hands so hard it hurt and she grimaced. Saying, “Christ,” he jumped off the bench to pace before it, wringing his hands. Abruptly, he halted and fiddled inside his jacket for something. He withdrew an ancient pouch and sat it on the bench beside her. He stood stock still for a long time, staring at the pouch with an intent, almost resentful expression.

Nial squatted on his heels in front of her and took her hands. This time, his palm was drenched and as unsteady as a vine in the wind. He dropped her hand again, and rose, wiping his palms on the sides of his trousers like a small boy.

The words he muttered so quietly that she had to strain to hear were not a'tall childlike. “Damn it no. No. I will do this right. Only one though, not two. Two is begging. I won’t beg. I will ask firmly.”

Now she'd grown quite worried. Was he ill? Had something happened at home? One and not two what?

He started to bend but halted as he lowered himself. He grimaced and stood, saying, “Jesus, this is wrong. It’s all wrong.”

Nial walked over and repositioned her in the seat like a toddling infant. “Here, Heather, the pond is pretty. Look at the pond. There’s a butterfly. Watch the pond and the butterfly,” he pointed with a finger that trembled. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he ran off to the side where horses were tethered.

She couldn’t resist a glance, and saw him take something from his saddlebag. It seemed important to him that she keep her gaze on the water so she studied the pond and worried about Nial. Her worry consumed her, and she paid no attention to her surroundings. The butterfly could have sprouted horns and turned into the devil incarnate and she would have taken no notice.

She was so preoccupied that she didn’t hear him return, and didn’t know he was there until a pair of golden, muscular calves appeared right in her range of vision. She jerked her gaze up to his eyes. He had changed into his kilt, and stood in front of her as a Highland laird in full ceremonial regalia. He seemed more focused this time. It was as though in shedding the English garb he shed his anxiety.

Nial smiled and she was struck by anew at by his masculine appeal and magnetism. Standing there, with his black locks framed in moonlight, wearing his sword, his sporran and his kilt, he was the image of everything her Highland home meant to her. Then she looked at the proud navy blue eyes, so full of love that she started to pinch herself. Surely, she had fallen asleep and would awaken to find this all a wondrous dream.

A moment later he reached to the bench beside her and took the pouch, placing it reverently on the ground. He opened it with care and unfolded some sky blue fabric, which he folded and arranged in a precise pattern as he said, “I shall only do this once in my life, so I wanted to get it right.”

He knelt on one knee and opened his right hand to reveal a lovely blue diamond ring, bearing a large center stone, surrounded by smaller golden citrines. "This ring has passed through generations of my family but its size has never been altered. Each laird changes the small stones flanking the blue diamond to suit the lady who will wear it. 'Tis given only to brides who are the fated love, and it fits the finger of each perfectly."

She gulped and chewed her lower lip. The jewel was lovely but the glow in his eyes outshone any bauble ever created. She focused on his eyes and when he glanced up from the stone to catch her at it, she could identify the glow. 'Twas love of the sort that belonged in the fairy tales little girls were taught to set aside so they could accept a lesser reality. Heather's eyes grew moist as she realized that her fairy tale hero knelt before her in flesh and blood.

She reached out and trailed a finger down his jaw. "Not a toad frog after all."

"Heather, pay attention. We'll discuss your preoccupation with amphibians some other time. Let's get back to the ring, okay?"

"Okay," she said, "But it doesn't hold a candle to your eyes."

The tenderness returned to his smile and his eyes with her words. "You should recall that my mother never wore this ring. My grandmother's last mortal act was to call me to her bedside. She gave it to me and demanded my promise to wait for my fate so that I might enjoy the enduring happiness she had with grandfather."

Heather inhaled a deep breath and forgot to let it out.

“I kneel before you upon my family’s treasured faerie flag. It has been the central dream of my life that one day I would be blessed enough to unfold the sacred talisman and kneel upon it before my lady. Only lairds asking the question of their fated mate are allowed this privilege. That I kneel before you on this flag and have not vanished in a puff of smoke should be proof enough even for my stubborn love that you are my fate.”

“Sweetheart, I dreamed of you before I knew you and when I knew you, I could not see that my fate stood before me. I knew what you were to me for the first time when your golden eyes filled with tears, shame and the pain I caused. You ran from me and I considered suicide, and nearly carried it out one day at the hidden loch.”

He saw her start at his words, and as though the shock had reminded her, she began to breathe again. “It is now my greatest ambition to see your golden eyes filled only with love and joy and the knowledge that you spend your life with the man lucky enough to be placed on earth for you. Heather, I love you. You are my first thought in the morning and my last in the evening. You hold my heart and my soul and you complete me. Will you marry me and walk forward with me into our faerie fated forever?”

The wind stilled and life itself paused to await her answer for that answer was his life. One word granted him a long one filled with love and joy or a short one, filled with agony and remorse. Then she smiled, and her golden eyes filled with love that washed over him and gave him a quiet certainty of her response. The tears trailing from her eyes and the emotion clogging her throat made speech difficult. She nodded yes, and opened her mouth on a happy sob to say the word. His navy happiness lit the dark gazebo like the noonday sun.

He remained on his knee to take her hand and place the ring that sealed their bond on her finger. "I knew 'twould fit your finger perfectly, my love, just as you fit me."

He leapt up to pull her off the bench. She threw herself into his arms and she took his mouth in a flurry of love that turned hard and urgent almost instantly. "Can you feel how hard I am for you, love?" He growled against her lips. "I hardened in a torrential rush with your acceptance." He moaned and swiveled against her caressing hand, even as he protested. “My love, I would not share your passion with anyone, and this place is not private.”

Heather disagreed. “I would seal our pledge this moment with our bodies.” She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him to the bench. "You want to do the same or you wouldn't be sitting right now."

He shrugged. "I could have resisted the shove, but I really wasn’t trying very hard." Humor lit his eyes as he continued. "My big head knows the risk in taking you here, but the little head is in charge right now and it seems to agree with you."

Her golden eyes donned a wicked spark. "Then you're in trouble, sir." His cock twitched forward and started thrumming when she crooked her little finger. “Up with the kilt my laird. I would see what I have bargained for. I would see that which every female in the ballroom would give years of their lives to experience.”

Nial’s navy eyes blazed his need, as his hands reached to flip up the kilt, obeying the command of this one woman without question. He displayed the rigid extent of his desire and her golden eyes caressed him in a slow sweep from his balls to the head of his cock. Her gaze was a touch he felt physically and as it kindled hotter and hotter, and swept up and down his expanding length he thrust against it. She gathered her gown around her waist, showing him her drenched readiness. His gaze lingered on the wet brown rainbow of curls, and she thrust against it once before she lowered herself over him.

He retained the mental prowess to make a single comment. “No drawers? I should beat you for dancing with other men when you were displaying what is mine.”

She moaned as she felt him enter her. “Would you beat me, my love?”

Whether it was her moist, tight heat enveloping him, or the fact that she had casually used the endearment, he couldn’t truly say. But words were nearly beyond him. She waited for an answer, and he gave it to her, in a harsh grating tone that attested to his need. “Love of my life, if I place a hand to your firm bottom, I can promise that striking it will be the last thought in my mind.”

He tugged her bodice down and had a ripe cherry in his mouth the second the silk shifted. He suckled it as hard as he wanted to thrust but she set the pace. He refused to alter her tempo although the shallow way she rode him nearly drove him insane. He tried to distract himself from the urge to grab her hips and pound into her by fixing his attention to her breasts. Even so, the very instant that she came he grabbed her and forced her fully down upon him and he exploded in that single thrust.

He kissed each breast as he pulled the material back up. He shifted restlessly under her as she planted kisses over his face. When she bit his earlobe and flicked her tongue within, he mimicked her thrusts with his renewed arousal. He moaned as he said, “My love, you cause me to regress to a state of primitive craving. It must be those claws of passion, for there is no outer limit to my desire for you. But we should stop, surely we have already tested the boundaries of our luck.”

The wanton temptress was firmly in control and she preferred to ignore boundaries. It was, after all, the temptress within her that made her the mate for the sensual man she rode. The temptress wanted to play. She enjoyed controlling the mighty laird with the power of his need and it was a source of amazement that it was for her alone. The temptress called the tune, but soon she became entrapped within the melody and the play ceased. As she immersed herself in the physical expression of the magic they made together, she cried her love for him, and his voice joined hers, to create a symphony of love eternal.

Some time passed before she rose to straighten her gown. Nial flicked his kilt down and stood behind her, gathering scattered hairpins and awkwardly playing maid by placing them at rather random spots amidst her hair. He bent to kiss her neck as he swept the locks up, saying, “Love, I’ve been in England far too long to suit me. I would wed you at the kirk at Kilcuillin at the soonest date we can possibly arrange. Are you ready to put behind you the carefully-crafted make believe world of the ton?”

She turned to him as she said, “Yes, my love. It is time to go home to Skye.”

He stepped back to survey her appearance. "Your gown is rumpled, your lips are full and swollen. I fear that my best efforts at styling your glorious hair leave much to be desired and," he paused and leaned close to sniff her neck, "You smell of me."

He blushed slightly as he saw that he had left his mark on her right breast that began at its curve, above the neckline of her gown and continued far below the fabric. He traced it with a finger, and smiled at the goose bumps that followed, “I fear I’ve marked you most openly, sweet. Yet I wish to announce our bond to your father and I wish to crow it loudly to Badgerton and your would-be suitors. Will you mind?”

In answer, she quirked a finger to bid him to lean down, which he did without protest. She fastened her lips to his neck just above his hastily tied cravat, and sucked and bit with all her might. She leaned back to survey her success, saying, “Now I have marked you most openly as well. Will you mind?”

He laughed as he led her back inside. “Not at all. Mark any area of your choosing with your passion. However, I fear that our appearance announces to all what we have been doing. ‘Tis perhaps just as well that the words follow so soon.”

They made their way through the embracing couples on the terrace and entered the balcony door just as the music of that dance ended. Nial spotted Carrick and Bonnie and shepherded Heather towards them. Their progress was met with murmurs of commentary upon their appearance that started quietly and rose to a dull roar by the time they stood before her parents. Nial's arm around Heather's waist held her next to his heart and his grin spoke for him before he said a word.

Carrick broke off his comment to John to join his wife in a shrewd and correct assessment of the meaning of their appearance. Bonnie found her voice first. “It is ever so interesting to see a man leave a party garbed as a Sassenach and to have him return as a proper Highland laird. And arm in arm with my disarrayed and glowing daughter as well.”

Laird MacIver refused to wear anything other than Highland garb and he snorted. “A change for the better if ever there was one. Yet I believe it is the triumphant hunter with his prize I see before me. Tell me, son, was there a recent occasion that required the withdrawal of the famed faerie flag? ‘Tis my understanding that such would decree a need for proper Highland attire as well.”

Nial held forth Heather’s left hand to show the ancestral Maclee stone on her ring finger. Then he looked in her eyes as he swept the hand to his lips for a kiss before he turned to her father. “Aye, Laird MacIver. Your daughter has done me the extreme honor of accepting my proposal of marriage. So now I put my request to you. May I have your permission to marry your daughter?”

“As though my denial of permission would affect you one whit. Of course you have it. Need I remind you that in this matter I saw the future first?”

John interrupted, centuries of English breeding at the formalities attendant upon a proper betrothal prompting him to protest. “This is not at all proper, Laird Maclee. You are bound to meet with her father and his solicitors to agree upon details of her dowry in contract before any betrothal is arranged or announced.”

Nial quirked a smile, which grew at Carrick's chortle. “Lord Standings, the dowry I require is the lady herself. Laird MacIver can keep every coin he possesses and give me Heather without so much as delivering her clothing with her and I will count myself as the single most fortunate man in existence. All I need to guarantee my future happiness is this lady bearing my name and sharing my life.”

The lady spoke up at that point, the quiver in her voice and the tears at the corners of her eyes betraying her overwhelming emotion at his public proclamation. “My love, poor specimen that I am, still, I am and shall ever be yours. My heart bids that it be so and I am Scot enough to listen to its command.”

With a joyful laugh, and ignoring the sea of watchful eyes that judged, Nial gathered her close for a kiss as Boz jumped on the nearby platform and signaled the musicians to cease. The interested crowd fell silent quickly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast to the happiness of a betrothal made just moments ago. To my kinsman, Laird Nial Maclee and his fated forever, Lady Heather MacIver. May the light of their love shine eternal and may it be fruitful. I have no doubt that such fruit will be plentiful.” He quirked a brow as he bowed mentally to the Sedgewick sixth sense, the completely untraditional nature of the union already recognized by the families and his own offbeat humor in glancing at Heather’s tummy, as he proclaimed, “I also expect that the first fruit will be promptly presented.”

Nial choked on a sip of champagne and dropped his glass as he glanced at his cousin, who winked and nodded. His eyes suspiciously moist, Nial bent in full view of the assembled crowd to place a tender kiss on Heather’s tummy. He glanced at her father when he stood. “Laird MacIver, I’m sure you know that the Sedgewick sixth sense is never wrong. That being the case, I’m for Skye as quickly as we can make arrangements. I would have your daughter before our priest at the Kilcuillin kirk with all due speed.”

“Indeed, Nial. I’ve a need to shake off the Sassenach dust from my kilt without delay. Let’s head for Skye with all due speed," Carrick agreed.

Boz had reached them from the stage by that point and heard the exchange. Although he couldn't precisely say whether his instinct was borne of the twinge of sixth sense that had hit him on the stage or whether 'twas the exchange itself. But something made him suggest that Nial and Heather wed here and then head for Skye - faerie tradition be damned.

Nial would hear none of it and Carrick was always ready to leave England before he'd ever arrived. Boz could only ignore the twinge that grew stronger and darker and it made him whisper, "Whether our speed is due or undue, I only hope it isn't fatal."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first day of their journey home, Nial spent crammed into a coach with Heather on one side, Boz on the other, and Bonnie and Carrick across from him. Peter rode with his parents, as did the dowager duchess. The Harrison children stayed in London with nursemaids. In honor of his long-anticipated victorious return to his homeland, he wore his kilt. He loved his kilt and everything it symbolized. Before they traveled half a day however he heartily condemned it to purgatory.

The problem? His lady liked to touch him. Her touches were not obvious or blatant. They were subtle and ostensibly appropriate. They were also driving him batty. While she and Bonnie had a long discourse on the menu for the banquet that would follow the wedding, Heather stroked his forearm. With each stroke, Nial’s cock jerked awake and quivered at the ready until she ceased the contact and he was able to cool off by imagining horrific images of violence, or that he was in a long, rambling discourse with the elders.

Just when his sex calmed, Heather would resume her touches. Each time, the gluttonous monster awoke and lingered in a semi-aroused condition until her touch ceased and Nial had to think himself calm again. By early afternoon he pretended a voracious appetite simply to get out of the carriage. Nial voiced a suggestion that he ride his horse the rest of the day but Heather’s expression grew so downcast that he couldn’t bring himself to desert her.

About mid afternoon the MacIvers dozed and Heather curled into him, placing her head on his shoulder. That posture caused her gown’s neckline to widen, and when Nial glanced down, he had a generous view of her left breast. As she drifted towards sleep, her hand curled into his lap and his monster pumped full instantly as his arousal grew from a low groan to a roar. She moved her hand around, and his staff stretched and lurched until his kilt was badly tented and he couldn’t sit still. The pressure of her hand would not allow Nial's thoughts to calm his body, and soon his prick shuddered with the burning pressure of strident desire.

Nial grew so desperate that he closed his eyes and prayed to the almighty for Boz to join the others in slumber. If his cousin would just close his eyes, he could put Heather’s hand where it would ease his distress. In his current condition, it wouldn’t take much. The damned duke looked suspiciously not tired, and as Nial’s furtive glances grew harder to ignore, the dratted man leaned over and said, “I never nap during daylight hours, old boy.”

“Pretend,” Nial gritted out from between clenched teeth. Boz gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Nial reached for Heather’s hand just as the carriage hit a hefty rut and jolted Carrick and Bonnie awake. Unfortunately it didn’t jolt Heather awake, it just caused her to start and grip what she was holding tighter. Nial ground his teeth and prayed for nightfall and five minutes alone with Heather. Eventually he got one but not the other.

******

Between the leisurely pace of travel and days of deprivation before they left London, it had been well over two weeks since Nial’s copious passion had found safe-harbor within Heather by the time they docked at Skye. Even burdened with lust, he managed a strained smile as they stepped ashore on their island home. A morning mist clung to the sky and shaded the peaks of the Cuillins, and the flowers of every hue grew in wild and untamed beauty that soothed the hearts of the travelers who had been gone too long.

Nial ignored their companions and paused to plant a far-too-heated kiss on his lady’s lips and whisper against them, “Home with my fate in my arms. I need nothing else from life.”

Heather reached a tender hand to Nial's cheek and he pressed against it before he planted a kiss there and with a long-suffering sigh, turned to greet the masses.

In the eternal manner of the secret grapevine that passed such news along, word had gone out that the lairds of Clan Maclee and Clan MacIver would return today. A large party waited at the landing to greet the group. Among them were a fair number of ladies come to sigh over the natural treasure of the island returned at long last. Nial kept Heather carefully within the circle of his arms.

The lasses frowned at her suspiciously, since none of them recognized the interloper who took far too much of the laird’s attention. It was not their unnoticed glares of resentment that occupied Nial’s attention. Rather, it was the fomenting interest of the young men whose eyes glistened with admiration at the beautiful temptress. The women pressed forward to lure Nial’s interest, and the men pressed forward to obtain Heather’s and the crowd thronged until the couple separated.

Nial felt a female hand on his bum and another on his chest as one of the bolder young widows he had favored in the past leaned close and said, “There is an empty spot in my bed and between my thighs for you Laird Maclee.” The comment was overheard by Heather, who was too busy with young men jockeying for favor to respond verbally, but the daggers in her glare would have been response enough for a woman with any degree of intelligence. Unfortunately, it had never been the widow’s mental acuity that concerned the laird.

The Maclee glanced over to see that four young bucks surrounded Heather. That meant eight eyes roamed over the bounteous bosom her neckline exposed. One of the more intensely interested had taken hold of her hand to kiss it and was by God nibbling on her fingers. That was the particular straw that broke the camel’s back for Nial.

With the same expression of challenge that opposing warriors saw in the heat of battle, Nial pushed aside every form that separated him from his lady as he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Enough!”

He reached Heather's side and wrapped an arm tightly around her waist and used the other to jerk her hand away from the admirer. Her eyes twinkled at his possessive gesture, but the twinkle stopped when she realized that a female hand cradled his tush. She mimicked his gesture in reaching behind to remove the offending talons from the bum that belonged to her.

“Hey,” objected a male voice.

“Hey,” objected a female voice.

“Back off,” was Nial’s surly command. Not used to having Laird Nial’s voice directed in anger, as he was generally more tolerant of a degree of groping on the island that he never allowed elsewhere, the crowd was puzzled. The threat in his tones convinced them to step back a pace or two.

“Laird,” came the angry voice from the female whose hand had been evicted from his backside, “I don’t know who she is but you’d better tell her that women are never allowed to become possessive. If she gets angry over a hand on your tush just imagine how upset she will be when it’s my turn to warm your bed.” Female voices rose in agreement.

“I have a different bone to pick with you,” said the deeper voice from the man who had been nibbling Heather’s lovely digits before they were jerked from his grasp. “I’ve as much right as you to touch this lovely creature, and if she prefers my touch to yours it’s apt to mean that she would rather own than rent.”

Nial lifted Heather’s left hand to hold it out and display it to the crowd. Loud gasps of shock proclaimed that all eyes recognized the famed Maclee betrothal ring that the lovely lady wore. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to someone you have all known since she was small. This is Lady Heather MacIver. I have long known the inner beauty of the woman, the charm and caring and strength of her character, but until very recently, I was blind to the fact that the inner beauty was matched by the outer glory of the lady.”

He kissed the hand wearing his ring and continued. “Heather is my faerie fated forever and in three days time,” he ignored the loud groans from Bonnie and Violet that protested the rush, “we shall wed in the kirk. That means that the only female flesh that shall meet mine shall be my lady’s. As for the men, if you wish to have the right to touch my Heather, you best plan to do so over my corpse, for I will after this day meet any touch with the point of my sword. Be very sure that your lust does not overrule your brain, for I will tolerate no interference with this one. She is mine and there is nothing that I value near as much. See that you all remember it.”

With those words, they joined the rest of the party in the wagon that would carry the group to Kilcuillin. The journey was only a few minutes in duration, but now that he had returned to the island so much a part of them both, Nial's desire refused to be contained. It billowed his kilt and commanded attention. Ignoring the other occupants, he traced the line of his lady’s mouth until the wench opened her lips and nibbled his finger. He returned the favor by nibbling her ear as he described his need in most graphic terms. Everyone was glad when the wagon pulled to the front of the Castle.

Nial was so intent upon impressing the immediacy of his intentions that it was a couple of moments before either of them realized they had arrived and were the last occupants of the conveyance. With a laugh, Nial jumped down and reached up to help her out of the wagon. She put her arms on his shoulders and he reached up to curve them around his neck as he placed his arms under her knees, and carried her away from the group.

With a frown showing the ingrained nature of the English propriety she had become accustomed to, Violet said, “One would think that he could wait three short days.”

Boz showed that his nature still held a fair amount of Highlands when he remarked, “Personally, I don’t think he could wait three minutes.”

******

They docked at Skye with the morning mist. The twilight Scottish evening accompanied their walk back to the Castle from a lengthy tryst at the hidden loch. Hand in hand with smiles of contentment, and similarly stained and torn clothing, they mounted the steps. Both ignored the raised eyebrows and grunts of disapproval. Business called, but Nial said quite firmly that he would settle Heather in his room before he returned to attend to any urgent matters.

Several ladies had kept themselves fetchingly arranged about the castle all day as they awaited the laird’s return. Each knew that she could lure Nial away from the interloper, that his eye would land on her and he would spirit her away to teach her all of his masculine secrets.

The couple’s appearance was discouraging enough but now he confronted the combined disapproval of the clan elders and Heather’s English Aunt and Uncle to openly have her in his bed before the vows were said. Well, the ladies were confident that the elders would win that battle, and leave them free to pounce in the nighttime hours as they planned.

“Now see here, Nial,” Shamus said, “until Heather is your bride you would shame her by having her in your bed. It is improper and we will not have it.”

“Well said,” John Crandle spoke up. “This haste is unseemly. It is clear enough across the Kingdom that she will not go to your bed a virgin. Surely you can contain yourself until the vows are said, young man. By all rights Heather should return to her home until the wedding.”

Nial kept a hand on one of Heather’s shoulders and throughout the sermonizing about propriety, his teeth and his tongue played with her unbound hair. He whispered that they'd missed a sprig of orchid and he pulled it out and brushed it across his lips. 'Twas a bit before the silence indicated that it was time for him to speak again. Rumpled and unkempt he might be, but it was the Laird of the Clan Maclee who spoke, leaving no doubt that his was the voice of command. “Heather is mine. I did not dishonor her. Laird MacIver has held his tongue because he knows that I claimed Heather publicly before I made her mine privately.”

He continued, and faced the Englishman. “You seem concerned about the vows being spoken. Your haste does not begin to match the urgency I feel. I put up with the need for pomp because the ceremony seems important to my lady. But I can assure you, I will gladly dispense with all of it. Heather will sleep in my bed with me on this night and on every night that follows. If you wish the vows to be said first then bring on the priest.”

Bonnie said, “I will not be denied my right to see my daughter wed with proper ceremony. If it doesn’t bother her parents that Heather belongs with Nial, then I don’t think any of you have the right to object.”

Nial challenged the others with his gaze. Boz winked, and at that gesture, the Laird of Clan Maclee led Heather upstairs to their room. A knock at the door brought maids and footmen fetching Heather’s belongings, and as a maid began to help her unpack Nial heard another knock and opened the door to find Boz on the other side, lurking uneasily.

Nial stepped outside the room at the other man’s gesture. Boz paced at the end of the hall, periodically stopping to stare out the window. His cousin’s unease quickly transferred to the laird. “Is there a problem?”

“Damn,” Sedgewick thrust a hand through his hair and then put it to his forehead. He turned to face the window and then turned back abruptly to the other man.

“Boz?” Nial’s demand was more strident, as his cousin’s reluctance to speak of what brought him upstairs became more than evident.

“It’s the bloody Sedgewick sixth sense. I fear that you will not react well no matter how I say it so I’m just going to say it, straight out. I sense danger here. Great danger.”

“For me? A challenge as laird?” Nial had faced a number of those from warriors who thought a “pretty boy” should not lead them. Each died on his blade.

“No. Danger to Heather.”

Nial gave the Maclee call to arms.

Boz snarled, “You are overreacting.”

“Overreacting? You tell me there is danger to Heather and if that is true I will protect her no matter what it takes.”

Behind them, the hallway filled with warriors from two clans, all armed for battle and all confused about why they'd been summoned to a hallway where the closest thing to a threat they saw was a disagreement between two unarmed men.

Alarmed by all the noise, Heather rose from her bath and threw on her robe, which clung to her damp curves like a second skin. She stepped in the hallway to investigate.

Male appreciation flared in every set of male eyes, including his cousin’s. “Stop it,” Nial hissed to Boz who only shrugged. Then he stepped in front of his lady, as grumbles of protest surrounded him. He planted a kiss on her lips as he pushed her back into the room. “Would you display the bounty that should be for my eyes alone for the admiration of both our clans, love? Please stay here and I will be with you in a moment.”

He returned to the hall and called his two worthiest warriors and assigned them to guard his lady’s door. He ordered the others to disband, and the hallway emptied of all but the elders, Carrick and Boz, who still regarded him warily.

“Where is the threat?” The MacIver demanded.

Boz explained what the Sedgewick sixth sense had revealed. It was a bit hard for the elders or Carrick who had not seen that force in action to take seriously any claimed threat, but the laird knew better.

Hugh said, "I think, perhaps, Laird, ye've grown a wee bit overprotective of the lass." All the heads in the hallway nodded agreement, save Boz's. "Come downstairs now to attend to business and this worry will pass."

Nial reluctantly agreed, but about halfway down the hall, he remembered that he now owed someone an account of his whereabouts. The spurt of male resentment was involuntary, but when he recalled the threat, he knew he would gladly make the adjustments marriage would require.

Curtailment of his freedom was a small price to have her in his life. Who or what threatened to take her from him?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The scene outside distressed her, so Heather was doing some pacing of her own as he explained the threat. She appreciated his concern even if she couldn’t take it seriously. She smiled and nodded at his lengthy lecture about how she wasn’t to go anywhere unguarded. Her ready agreement pleased him and he lowered his mouth for a brief farewell kiss as he explained that he must attend some clan business and would see her at dinner.

Unfortunately for the elders who waited at the top of the stairs, Heather still wore only her robe which still clung to the dewy wetness of her body. Nial felt safe kissing her, because today’s romps had surely drained him. He still told himself that as his hands went to the tie of her robe. He still told himself that as he moved back a step to allow her hands to go to the buttons of his shirt as she murmured that she wanted to feel his bare chest against hers. He still told himself that as his mouth bent to suckle her nipples.

It was only when his fingers found the moisture beckoning his pressing need to come inside and play that he stopped lying to himself. As he began pushing her down on the mattress, she said, “I thought you were heading downstairs to attend to pressing clan business.”

Ripping off the rest of his clothing, he said “To hell with the rest of the world. I only need you.”

She was still smiling when he pressed his entry home.

******

The elders tired of the wait so Raibert walked back down the hallway, intending to knock at the door. The guards refused to allow the elder near it. “What keeps him?” Raibert asked.

Sounds from within drifted to the hallway, a low male laugh followed by a female moan.

One of the guards said, “To a man, the warriors of both clans have ever increasing admiration for the laird’s stamina. We also fear that our own wives may try to measure us by his standards.”

The other warrior agreed. “All the men will have to go to the healer for supplements and potions to be sure that we measure up.”

Old Raibert testily bade the warriors to remind the laird that he was needed downstairs as soon as he finished “tending the need upstairs.” He then rejoined the elders and all shook their heads as he explained the delay. Downstairs, as their wait lengthened, several grumbled that “this marriage might not be such a good thing after all” because none expected that the laird would be so taken with the lady that he neglected business. No female came before the clan.

******

More than an hour later, a contented Nial made his way downstairs. He joined the elders in the large chamber adjacent to the courtyard to hear petitions. There were two men who wanted the hand of the same woman in marriage, and in view of his new knowledge of matters of the heart, the case caught his attention.

Prosperous and able warriors, both men brought important skills in battle. They stood arguing about who should have the “right” to the woman who stood between the pair with downcast eyes, showing no preference. Nial glanced over the gathering, and saw one of the younger warriors being restrained by an older veteran. He recognized the angry young warrior as Brian and called him forward, surprising the parties before him and those in the audience.

He carefully watched Cait, the maiden. She showed no reaction to the verbal combat of the two warriors who fought for her hand, but the young and comely Brian received a smile lit with the deep glow Nial recognized as passion. So he gave each warrior a command. “Explain why you want to marry Cait.” Each argued that his contributions entitled him to the woman and that there were many reasons why the other should not have her.

When they finished, Nial turned to Brian. “I saw anger on your face as these two verbally jousted over their entitlement to the lass. Do you wish to make a claim to this woman?”

The young warrior glanced back to his comrades who hissed “noo” and “have a care for your future man.” Brian clenched his hands, and shook his head to deny a claim, until Cait placed a hand on his arm and he met her eyes. Brian's words came straight from his heart as he stared into the eyes sparkling up at him. He said, “Laird, I know that I can not claim to have spent the years battling for the clan that these two have. My need for her does not come from what I think is due me, for I admit that what is due me is less than that due these men. My need for Cait is that I love her and can not imagine life without her. I believe that she feels the same.”

The warriors scoffed. Laird Nial would hardly consider such a paltry emotional issue when deciding the future of the clan. Their first surprise came when the laird turned to the lass.

“Cait. Look at me,” he instructed. She did and her dark brown eyes held barely restrained tears. Nial smiled then and gently said, “You have not stated a position lady. What would your choice be and why?”

At first she couldn’t speak for her tears. The older warriors crossed their arms and glared at her in demand. Brian took out his handkerchief and crossed to murmur soothing words and wipe away the tears. She spoke then, saying, “Laird Nial, my parents have cautioned me to look to finances and the power of the two older warriors. But that is not what is in my heart. I love Brian and would trade all the power and security that there is for just a score of nights as his wife."

Nial smiled as both young people looked at him with eyes that contained no hope. The laird would look to the future of the clan and weighed against that, two paltry hearts just wouldn’t measure up. His words astonished the entire gathering.

“Had this matter come before me six months ago, I’d have ordered a challenge combat between my two senior warriors for the hand of this lovely lady. Brian and Cait may thank the faeries that I am not the man I was such a short time ago. Today, I have all confidence that the love these two young people bear for each other will make a fine marriage. I am also certain that this marriage will guarantee the loyalty and commitment of both to the Clan Maclee. Go and seek the priest and say the vows and fear no retribution from the elder warriors.”

Brian grabbed Cait’s hand and with happy smiles, they ran out of the room. Nial watched them go and saw the lad place a hand on the lady’s rear and speculated that the trip to the priest might be delayed for a few moments.

Then he summoned the unhappy older warriors. “I am displeased with both of you. Your words were of rights and entitlement and neither of you bore love for the lady. You would have created lives of misery for each other, the young lady, Brian and his future wife, and all of the children you all would bear. Do not return to me to petition for the hand of a young lady until you can look me in the eye and assure me that the one thing you bring to the union is the love in your heart that will have her and no other. If I hear of mischief or discord for the young people or their families, you will be punished with the full might of my power. Do you understand?”

The two shifted their eyes and tried to pass of nods as agreement, but Nial repeated his question. “Do you understand?”

Both reluctantly met his eyes and said “Yes, Laird,” before they fled his presence, likely to seek joint comfort from some whiskey.

Nial heard a barely stifled gasp and saw that Heather had entered. Her eyes conveyed her approval of his judgment. Nial's answering smile excluded the rest of the room.

Then Hugh stepped forward, with three couples beside him. “Laird, I would now bring before you a matter of some delicacy. Sorcha’s former cottage is closer to the castle and larger than that of these couples who would claim it. We have held it closed until your return and your decision. What say you?”

Nial saw Heather turn to leave. hey had not reached the present union to allow that woman’s evil to diminish it. He stood and called to her.

“Heather, my love,” he said, ignoring gasps from the roomful of people who were astonished that their laird showed affection so openly. “Please join me.”

She wanted to argue, but could not challenge him when he sat as Laird Maclee. So she reluctantly came forward, stopping a few feet away from where he sat. He would have none of that. The love he bore her was so immense and overpowering that he suspected his clan would have to accustom themselves to some quite public displays of affection. He may as well start as he would continue. With the latter thought, he pulled Heather’s hand and continued to pull until she nestled in his lap.

She was a Highland lass, and was herself surprised that he would show his affection before others while he sat as the Maclee.

“Nial?” She asked quietly, for his ears alone.

He responded by tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. His gaze was open and filled with love. “Nothing and no one will come between us. Her name will come up now and again and when it does, I ask that you remember the foolish idiot who nearly threw away everything he had sought his entire life. I also ask that you recall your generosity in allowing him a second chance. Perhaps you can teach our children the merits of second chances,” he said.

She could not speak past the ball of emotion in her throat and merely nodded.

It was enough for he turned to the others who shifted uncomfortably and tried to look anywhere in the room but at him and the lady he held on his lap. He laughed heartily at their unease. “I recommend that you get used to such behavior. Now tell me of each of the families who would claim the cottage.”

Hugh spoke well of each couple, and the first two met his eyes easily. The third couple was different. Heavily burdened with child, the lady held the hand of a toddler. Brighde met his eyes easily. Her husband, Uilleam, was a brawny warrior who had been much admired by the young ladies before his marriage. Nial recalled attending the wedding and seeing the witch there. Sorcha’s eyes had measured the groom with sensual intent that bespoke her familiarity, which she didn’t bother to hide. When Uilleam left to seek privacy in the forest, the black widow followed.

That event stuck in his mind because she had been pulling down the top of her gown to reveal her breasts before the trees hid her. With shame, he remembered that he had envied the young bridegroom the attentions of the widow on the eve of his wedding to the virtuous maiden. “A frolic with the forbidden before seeking tamer pastures,” he recalled thinking.

He spoke to the other man. “Uilleam?” The man’s eyes snapped to his. A look of male understanding passed between them. Nial knew that Uilleam had betrayed his marital vows with Sorcha and carried that as the largest regret of his life.

Obtaining vengeance beyond the grave was generally impossible, but sometimes fate allows second chances. Nial awarded the house to Uilleam and his wife without verbal explanation but the man’s gaze said he knew why the laird had given his family the boon.

Nial motioned Heather up and stood beside her. He was reminded how bright his lady was when she placed a hand on his chest to stop him and leaned over to whisper, “He was with her wasn’t he?”

Nial nodded.

“After his marriage?” She asked pointedly.

Nial nodded again. “I think so.”

“Just remember that you have already had your second chance.”

“I need no more chances, love. In the entire history of my clan, a Maclee laird fortunate enough to find his fated forever has never strayed. I shall not be the first.”

******

She stood and measured his intent a moment longer before conceding the truth of his words and allowing him to take her arm to lead her to the dinner table. He seated her beside him and his thoughts drifted as the fare was passed. Heather conversed with her mother as he spoke to Boz and Carrick of how long three days could seem when a man was in a hurry. Boz teased him by saying how strange his sudden impatience was and relating tales, clean ones, of Nial’s abundant patience in the past.

Laughter and camaraderie abounded and Nial’s attention was distracted. He missed the movement when a young maid brought a dish to Heather. Luckily, Bonnie spoke. “Heather, in honor of your homecoming I had the cook prepare for you a dish of your favorite pudding.”

Heather would have raised a bite to her lips but Nial laid his hand on top of hers to restrain her as he turned to Lady MacIver. “This dish was made for Heather alone?”

She took offense to the question. “A mother is allowed to spoil her only child a little, Laird Maclee.”

Nial’s eyes hardened, as he repeated his question. “This dish was made for Heather alone?”

Exasperated, Bonnie nearly shouted, “Yes, it was made for her alone, but I’m sure she would share it with you.”

Heather was nodding puzzled agreement when Nial tore the dish from her hands and threw it at the fireplace, where it shattered on the hearth. Complete silence fell over the room, and only Boz’s gaze held understanding. The others wondered if this was further evidence that their laird had taken leave of his senses.

As the room lay cloaked in silence one of the hounds walked over to sniff at the dish. The dog began eating eagerly but as it finished, it started choking and gasping for breath and fell over. The healer, Mac, made a quick check, looked up and said, “The dog is dead, laird.”

Bonnie’s hands shook so violently that she dropped her glass and it shattered on the floor. Nial picked Heather up from the table as though she was too frail to walk upstairs on her own. He paused only long enough to give one command. “I want a full investigation. Question everyone who was near the kitchen. Use torture if you must. I will know who would hurt my lady.”

The laird’s quick exit from the room with Heather caught most of the glances. Carrick’s was focused on the duke. “How did you know son?”

“The bloody Sedgewick sixth sense is a lot like my cousin’s dealings with the faeries. Part curse and part blessing, but it is ignored at the greatest peril. It is never wrong.”

The Scot suddenly had a newfound respect for the English duke – and his sixth sense.

The episode had a profound effect upon Nial who refused to allow Heather out of his sight, and usually kept her under his arm. He even insisted upon accompanying her to the privy. When the elders protested the need to discuss clan business “without a woman present,” Nial advised that the business would either wait or be conducted with Heather there. Several matters had grown urgent over his absence and couldn’t wait but the lass found the long meetings boring.

Bonnie tried to take her out of one of the meetings on a rare occasion when Heather was sitting a few feet away from Nial. The pair was tiptoeing towards the door of the room when the laird bounded up in the midst of a complicated financial analysis by one of the elders and jumped in front of them.

Exasperated, Lady MacIver said, “Surely you know that my daughter is safe with me.”

The laird would not be moved. “She remains with me. Apparently I have not been keeping her close enough. That will change now.”

It did change. After that moment Heather was always within the curve of Nial’s arm or attached to his hand. He kept her there and even tolerated the lengthy wedding discussions among the women. Not one of the other men would endure the discussions, but Nial was firm. Where Heather was, so would he be.

It wasn’t long before the clan elders began saying, “Enough is enough.”

The morning after the attempted poisoning a maid carried a breakfast tray up to the laird’s room. She barely set it down before the laird bounded out of bed, naked, and grabbed the her arm to besiege her with questions. “Who prepared this food? Did you see them fix it? Who was in the kitchen while the food was prepared?” The girl began to stammer and cry that she just brought the tray.

Nial forced it back into her hands and demanded that she take it away. After the girl left, Heather protested that she was hungry and he got out of bed, dressed and said that he would “Take care of it personally.” She wasn’t sure what that meant, but when some time passed without food arriving, she dressed and went downstairs to find him – with one of the guards close by her side.

None on the first floor had seen him, and she wandered through each room until she came to the kitchen. The first thing she saw when she opened the door was a basket of apples sitting on the table. By now she was starving, so she grabbed one and had it lifted to her mouth to bite when Nial appeared, jerked it out of her hands and threw it across the room, nearly striking two members of the kitchen staff in the process.

Heather tried to keep from giggling as he ranted to her about the danger of eating an apple. She was largely successful until she got a good look at him. He wore an apron and wielded a wooden spoon that he waived about randomly.

The head cook’s booming voice called across the kitchen, “Laird, this batch of eggs is about to get burnt like the others. If they does you’ll have to go back to the hens and start all over again.”

“What?” Heather asked as Nial cursed and ran over to the wood stove. The laird of the clan was cooking what might have been scrambled eggs. It smelled like bread was burning somewhere. He refused to stop to answer her questions. The kitchen door opened. Nial didn’t glance around, but Heather looked back to see her father and two of the elders bearing nearly identical looks of astonishment.

About ten minutes later, Nial told her to sit down. It didn’t seem to be a good time to argue, so she complied. Nial’s face bore a look of pride as he carried over a platter of incinerated eggs and bread that still smoldered. He placed a mug of juice in front of her. She glanced into it and saw large pieces of pulp and seeds floating around. He barked at her to “Eat” as he sat down with similar food and drink before him.

Pulp, seeds and all, it was only by taking large swigs of the liquid that she was able to get down a single bite of the food. He had clearly prepared every single item himself, and she loved him to distraction, so at his anxious inquiry she was able to look him squarely in the eye and tell the biggest lie of her life. She said, “It’s wonderful, sweetheart. Just delicious.” She even took another bite to emphasize her point.

The elders and the MacIver could keep silent no longer and rushed to the table. Carrick tried very hard not to take offense when Nial reacted to their presence like they were intruders bearing weapons. He leapt up from his chair and stood behind Heather with one arm wrapped around her. His other hand pushed aside the skirt of the apron to rest on the hilt of his sword.

There stood the proud laird of the Clan Maclee, hovering over Heather like an anxious mother hen. All three men approached gingerly, with raised hands to indicate that they were no threat. Carrick mumbled that he thought the food his daughter was eating was more apt to kill her than any poison he knew of.

“Nial,” MacIver asked carefully, “what is the meaning of this?”

Maclee looked at him like he was a prize idiot. “Until the threat passes, Heather will only eat food that I prepare.”

The large cook rushed over. “Not only did the laird cook the food, he insisted on gathering the eggs - said he had to be sure they weren’t tampered with. He even got the flour and shortening, milk and salt for the bread and mixed that himself. I’m sure you can see that he prepared the juice.”

The elders had seen more than enough. “Laird, you can’t be running around the kitchen like a lackey and cooking. 'Tis beneath your dignity. You're a man of consequence, the leader of this clan. You must act like it else you will forfeit everyone’s respect.”

The heat of battle raged in Nial’s eyes. “What I won’t forfeit is Heather. Dignity would be cold comfort as I aged and withered, alone and longing for the grave because the only hope I had left was meeting her on the other side.” Nial snorted then, and continued. “Actually, that’s a load of bull droppings. If I lose Heather I won’t be around long enough to age or wither.”

The three men were silent because none could find a single word in response when they realized he was completely serious. After too long a pause, Mac said, "Well, for the good of the clan we’ll have to hope Heather remains hale and hearty.”

Hugh was less kind. “Touched he is. He is purely obsessed with that girl. Love is well and good but this is just not normal, it ain’t.”

Carrick’s words were kinder. “Most fathers walking a daughter down the aisle do so with some doubt as to whether she will be loved or treated well by the man he’s about to give her to. I don't have the slightest doubt that I’m giving my Heather to a man who loves her beyond even the dreams of a proud papa.”

Over the next two days, as the castle prepared for the wedding, one thing was clear to every soul about the place, from servant to laird and even to the throngs of the disappointed lasses.

Laird Nial Maclee was head over heels in love with Lady Heather MacIver.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Normally, when she and Nial were closeted in the bedroom a knock at the door would be most unwelcome. But these days normal didn’t exist, and this knock at the door made her want to dance with glee. Nial’s pacing was on her last nerve and nothing distracted him. The wedding was tomorrow, and his anxiety was driving the whole castle batty.

Her father tried to keep his sense of humor about it all. He said, “At least the boy doesn’t have cold feet. I’ve never seen a groom so anxious to get wed. Guess he’s got the opposite. Nial has hot feet.”

Da was right. Her betrothed’s feet were so hot he couldn’t sit still. Then came the knock. Thank God.

Nial snatched open the door before Boz could knock a second time but he still protested being drug into the hallway. Sedgewick erupted at his protest. “Bloody buggers, man. You’ve got two warriors at the door and we will be inches away. She can shout and have help in seconds.”

“What if she couldn’t shout? Did you ever think about that?”

Boz ordered the guards to stand inside the door and keep it open a crack.

“Happy now?”

“No. I’m not happy. I just want to get married. Once she’s mine, maybe I can calm down.”

“I know, buddy. It’s just that you’re driving everyone dicked in the nob. I try not to complain, because I know you have good cause for every bit of protection you can give your bride.”

Nial’s eyes brimmed with such love and fear it was painful to meet his gaze. “Still getting uneasy feelings from your sixth sense?”

“I’m not going to pull any punches. My gut’s churning and I’m getting queasy. The last time it acted up this bad I was in France in bed with a lovely young thing. I was having too much fun and ignored my instincts to get home. Soon I got nauseous, fighting the need to throw up. I still ignored it. Then I stood to pour some wine and doubled up in pain. About a half-hour later I got a message that Father had died.” Boz clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and said, “I’ve been queasy for the last hour.”

“Should I cancel the wedding?”

“No, we’re past that point. It’s like someone at the top of a hill has pushed a big boulder. The only thing left is to see whether you can get Heather out of the way in time.”

Nial turned to the window. When he whirled back around, his voice was unsteady. “I love her so much. I’m doing everything I can to hold on and it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Sedgewick said quietly, “I know.”

“What else can I do?”

“Just love her, I guess,” the duke replied, knowing it was impossible for a man to do more than his cousin was doing already.

Nial didn’t stop following his cousin’s advice until Heather's screams of pleasure rang through the castle and she lay exhausted and utterly satisfied, having gone completely still just after her last sweet death. He lay panting and panicking, knowing that all of the sweet deaths could not save her from the cruel one. Every conceivable security precaution that could be in place was in place. What more could he do? Then he knew. He hadn’t done it much in his life, feeling he could counter any threat on his own. This one felt like too much for him, so his lips started moving and he watched her so intently he barely blinked.

As exhausted as she was, the small noise woke her and she peeked through her eyelids to see Nial sitting up in bed with his eyes trained on her and his lips repeating something over and over. After the third time, she made out his prayer. “Dear Lord, please protect her, don’t take her from me. She is all I need. Take anything else. Take everything else. Please keep her safe. Please keep her safe.” She woke a couple of times during the night with the sensation that someone was watching. Each peek showed Nial propped up on one elbow, stroking her hair or her face or her arm while he murmured the same continuing prayer. She was right too. There was someone watching her because Nial did all through the night.

When morning came and Heather opened her eyes for real, Nial's hands still stroked her hair and his lips moved in prayer. She reached up to stroke his cheek and say, “It will be all right. I promise. I won’t leave you.”

He smiled a bittersweet smile, and feathered her eyelids and brow with kisses as he said, “At sunset tonight you shall be mine. I would give everything I have, everything I am, for this to be tomorrow night and you to be lying beside me as my wife by your vow.”

“You truly think there will be trouble?”

He wouldn’t lie, but he would sugarcoat the truth. “I do love, but I don’t think it will be anything we can’t handle.”

“But why? I don’t understand who would be brewing trouble now. If Sorcha hadn't gone, I would know who to accuse.” Heather’s distress was audible.

Nial spoke against her lips. “My love, if Sorcha weren’t gone I would have ordered her killed after the attempted poisoning. But it can’t be her and if I knew why then I would most likely know who.”

One kiss led to another, and his mouth was lowering to seek fuller game when a knock came to the door and Bonnie and Carrick’s voices could be heard from outside.

“Damn,” Nial muttered.

“You’re a glutton,” Heather said as she poked him in the chest.

“Are you complaining, love?” He asked, feathering a teasing brush across her nipples.

She thrust her breasts into his hands. “We have to stop.”

Regretfully, he said, “No, but we do have to pause.”

He called out, “Just a moment” and assisted her to her feet and into her robe. He donned his on his way to open the door.

Carrick walked in carrying a platter and held up a hand to forestall Nial’s comment. “This wedding breakfast was lovingly prepared by Heather’s mother.” He set the tray down before beaming proudly. “I even helped.”

Heather approached the food eagerly. There were many things Nial did well but cooking wasn’t one of them. He placed his hands on her shoulders to halt her progress towards the food.

“Whose hands touched this food?”

“Just mine and my wife's,” Carrick replied.

Bonnie drew herself up to sputter, “You can hardly accuse Heather’s parents of having an intent to harm her. We love her as much as you do, Laird Maclee.”

He drew Heather’s hand to his mouth. “No ma’am, that is not true. I can promise you that no one loves her as much as I do.” He turned to the food and began to taste. “I wish to be sure it is safe.” He tasted each dish and then held up his hand for his lass to wait a bit longer.

Her hunger prompted her to protest. “You’ve tasted everything and it was cooked by my parents. Why can’t I eat now?”

“A moment love. Some poisons do not act immediately.” He would not relent, and only after he felt a sufficient time had past did he allow her to touch the food.

Bonnie still looked peeved at being doubted, but Carrick wryly observed, “I try to remind myself that at least I have no cause to doubt my son-in-law’s affection for my daughter.”

“Of that you can be sure,” Nial grinned as he watched Heather devour both portions of food on the platter.

Lady MacIver spoke up then. “Nial, after lunch Violet and I will be here to get Heather ready for the wedding. She will meet you at the altar at sunset.” She tensed for the explosion she was certain would follow. She was right.

“Hell no, Madam. I will not allow her out of my sight. Shall we make it easy for those who would kill her? When she is done with the food perhaps we should serve her up to them on the platter?”

“Son, I insist that her mother and I have some time alone with her before she leaves us to become your wife.” The wily laird knew that the younger man would be swayed by the emotional appeal and continued, pressing his advantage. “We know you love her. We appreciate your dedication to keeping her safe. But I will wait here with the ladies and I will walk her to the kirk. You must allow us some time with her before the wedding. We too have words to exchange with our daughter today.”

With the warrior instincts that protected his clan, Carrick moved in for the kill, placing his hand on the other man’s arm, “Someday, it will be your daughter that you are about to give to another man. No matter how much the other man loves her, she will be leaving you that day. Would you allow anyone to deny you a few last moments of privacy with her?”

Nial had to acknowledge the truth of Carrick’s words. Heather had stood during her father’s plea. Her back was to him and her head rested against his chest. Unconsciously, with Laird MacIver’s last words, his hands stroked her stomach.

He sighed deeply and reluctantly answered, “I suppose. It’s just…Damn. Carrick, you don’t know how hard this is. I prefer that we summon the priest now and exchange our vows here, now.”

The MacIver knew that the younger laird’s concern for his daughter’s safety outweighed every other consideration. He understood and had proposed the same to his wife twice or more. Her tearful pleas swayed him and he'd given his word that their daughter would marry in the chapel.

“Nial,” Carrick reproved.

“It will be okay, love,” Heather urged, taking his hand to her mouth and nibbling on his index finger. He put his arms around her waist, squeezing as he laid his head against hers. "You promise that you will watch her every moment? You promise to keep her safe? You promise to deliver her to me at that altar?” Nial’s arms folded tighter with each word.

“Only if you promise not to choke her to death first,” Carrick said, and laughed as he and Bonnie exited from the room. Nial was preoccupied with his worry and missed Heather stepping around him until she knelt between his legs and untied his robe.

He asked the question silently.

Her answer was muffled, because her mouth was pressed to his rapidly rising manhood. “It’s my turn to cherish you,” she said.

She smiled like a cat and wielded her tongue just as mischievously and didn’t show mercy even when his moans changed to wails audible in the hallway and beyond. The elder of the pair guarding the door had to restrain the younger. “It’s not the kind of cry for help he wants us to answer, son.”

Boz wanted to update his cousin that his sixth sense was thrumming louder and he had passed from queasy to downright nauseous. He approached the door of the bedchamber just as loud dueling mewls emerged from the interior of the room. He smiled at the guards. “It sounds like it would be a very bad time to interrupt.”

“I wouldn’t,” replied the eldest.

Boz grinned. “I'll catch up with him later." As he turned to leave the sounds increased and he winced as he added, "Seeing how drastically love has changed Nial, I am now twice as committed to avoiding the state.”

“Really, sir?” Asked the younger, “After being on the listening end of this door, I can’t wait to fall in love.”

“Why is that?” the duke asked.

“Although it seems to drive you around the bend the benefits make sure you really enjoy the trip.”

When Bonnie and Violet arrived in the early afternoon the laird remained ensconced in the bedchamber. He watched the preparations until servants began to fetch bath water for Heather. He didn’t intend to leave then either, but his future mother-in-law evicted him.

“Nial Maclee,” she said, with one hand on her hips and a finger of the other wagging at him as though he were a small child, “it’s time for you to get out of here.”

“Because my lady is taking a bath? That’s ridiculous.”

“What you’ve seen of and done with my daughter, I don’t want to hear about. What I want to hear is that you’re keeping your word. I’m certain you recall your conversation with Carrick this morning. Well, it’s time for you to go. You’ll see Heather again at the kirk.”

Nial wanted to argue but he had given his word and as his future mother-in-law just reminded him, a Scot always kept his word. He stood and took Heather’s hand and led her to the door, ignoring Violet’s outraged squeak. At the door, he faced the room and she faced him. He opened the belt and drew her close. It felt a lot like goodbye, so the clump of emotion in his throat made speech a physical effort.

He leaned to her ear. “My love, I don’t want to leave you. Say you agree and I’ll break my word to your father and I will be the one who walks you to the chapel. Better yet, I will summon the priest and we will wed now.”

He was staring at the floor as he spoke and she put a finger under his chin to force him to look up at her. His eyes were wet, and though he bit his lower lip, it didn't fully hide the quiver. She put both hands to his cheeks and several stray teardrops slipped down his cheeks and over her fingers.

“Nial,” she whispered, “I love you and it will be all right. I will be fine. I shall come to you down the altar garbed like a princess on the arm of my father. Let’s do this right, please?”

“Heather,” he said brokenly, “I love you so much but this feels like goodbye. I want you to know that I would betray my clan to keep you. I would betray my honor to keep you. I would go to the land of faerie and dwell with you there to keep you. I will not lose you.”

Now she cried as he reached down and took her lips for a long and tender kiss filled more with love than passion. Normally, Bonnie or Violet would have gone into a bout of coughing or throat clearing to break it up, but the truth was, they couldn’t. Both were so choked up from his words that they couldn’t speak at all.

He left without another word, and Bonnie held her arms open to her daughter. All three women sobbed. Vi sniffed. “Drat that man, he’s got us starting already. But I’ll tell you what, you’d better marry him or I will.”

“Oh, I’m going to marry him. And I’m going to surprise him by being hale and hearty when I say my vows,” Heather promised.

“You may be more hale and hearty than he is, my dear,” Bonnie warned dryly.

“Why is that?”

“Because if Nial keeps insulting your father by implying that he’s not strong enough or careful enough to get you to the altar in one piece, then Carrick just might kill him.”

******

As the women bustled about getting ready, Nial donned his ceremonial kilt and made it downstairs in a matter of minutes. He’d never understand how it took women so many hours to get dressed. Then he recalled Heather at the various balls they had attended in London and smiled as he decided that he couldn’t argue with the results.

After about fifteen minutes everyone wished he'd go back upstairs. Nial's state had passed tense, anxious, and even desperate. His worry level now hovered somewhere beyond berserk. This should be a joyful occasion, but Nial’s pacing and muttering made it impossible for anyone to feel like celebrating. When Peter got close enough to hear what Nial was saying, it didn’t help anyone’s mood to learn he was praying.

Even more astonished by the laird than the men in the house was the priest. The good man nearly fainted. He stopped by to be sure that everything was still as planned for the wedding. He took three steps into the dwelling before Laird Maclee grabbed his arm.

“Father McGiven will you pray with me? Now, right now?”

The priest could hardly do otherwise, especially since Laird Maclee yanked him down. It was either get on one knee or fall. One knee was the Highland prayer posture, since the men here refused to go down on two knees. They said that they’d not beg anyone, even God. Priests considered themselves lucky to get the stubborn Scots to the one knee, so they gave up pressing for more.

Father McGiven glanced at the other men, seeking some sort of explanation. Sedgewick mouthed “humor him.” Boz was less generous a moment later, after his cousin's next words.

“Will you all pray with me?” Now the poor priest was truly befuddled. As one, the men put down their whiskey and assumed the same prayer posture. The father was amazed at seeing so many who rarely graced his church seeking prayer. He was glad to pray with them but he frankly had no idea what he should pray for.

“Son,” Father McGiven said, “I presume that you seek to pray that your coming marriage will be happy and fruitful?”

Nial looked up, offended. “Hell no, father. Once I’m married to Heather, it will damned well be happy. It’s already been fruitful – she carries our child.”

Nial hadn’t intended to say that. Neither he nor Heather had yet confirmed that Boz’s earlier sixth sense had been right. “Damn,” he muttered, “Heather wanted to announce that.”

Carrick was as pleased as punch. “A grandchild? Bonnie and I are to be grandparents, hanh? Well, that was quick work, boy.”

Pleased he’d been right, Boz gloated., “Upon my word it looks like the Sedgewick sixth sense displays to advantage again." He could have bitten his tongue because Nial looked even more frantic and started tugging on Father McGiven’s arm again. The priest still looked perplexed that the father of the bride wasn’t trying to kill the groom who had anticipated his wedding vows.

“Prayer, father?” Nial asked again.

“Son,” the good man’s patience was at an end, “I’ll be happy to pray for just about anything with you, but it would help to know what it is you want me to pray for.”

“Heather. Pray that she will arrive at the altar alive,” Nial’s tone grew more tense as the minutes ticked by.

“Is there some possibility she will not arrive alive, son?” The priest inquired.

“Yes. They’re making me leave her. As long as I have her with me she will be okay, but they’re making me leave her.” Nial’s panic was really starting to piss Carrick off. He tried not to look pissed off because it was probably a cardinal sin to be pissed off while you were praying.

“Very well, son. We will pray that Heather arrives at the chapel alive and that she continues to be hale and hearty and lives to a ripe old age.” Diplomacy made the priest add the rest, because Laird MacIver’s temper was nothing to be sneezed at and he was clearly becoming irate.

“Just pray that she gets to the chapel alive. Once she’s back with me, I’ll not let her out of my sight until the threat has passed. And maybe not then either,” Nial added for good measure.

“Damn it, Nial,” Carrick began, but halted with a blush when the priest cleared his throat.

Once the priest started praying, Nial wouldn’t let him stop. Father McGiven tried saying “Amen” five or six times, but each time, when the men started to rise the laird pushed the priest back down again. About an hour later, when Violet came downstairs because they had forgotten the “something borrowed,” she watched for a few minutes before she tiptoed back upstairs with wide eyes.

“What are the men doing?” Bonnie asked, as she stood behind Heather brushing her hair.

“They are praying and Nial won’t let them stop.”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“The more they pray, the madder Carrick gets. It’s the first time I saw a man on his knees in prayer who looked like he was contemplating murder.” When Vi laughed this time, all the ladies joined in.

After an hour and a half in prayer, the priest started getting desperate. When he began to pray that “God please allow his knees to hold out long enough to perform the wedding,” Nial finally relented and allowed him to get up. He moved faster than he had in years to exit the dwelling, because the laird looked like he was about to call for prayer again when he saw the black robe hightailing it out the front door.

The men started pressing Nial to have a drink, and he issued the proclamation that none of them should be drinking today, especially Laird MacIver.

“Why is that?” Carrick got right in Maclee’s face when he asked the question.

“Because I don’t want your aim to be off,” Nial’s shouted his reply.

“Son, I’ve been putting reins on my temper because I don’t want to deliver my daughter to the alter to marry a man with two black eyes and a swollen lip, but you are about to push me too far.”

Nial put a hand on Carrick's arm, looked at him with love and fear written on his face, and said, “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I’m so very worried about her.” The MacIver’s temper visibly cooled. It was impossible to hold onto a good jolt of ire, no matter how well deserved, when it was solely motivated by concern for your daughter.

The shouting got so loud it was heard upstairs. Bonnie, seeking to avoid the men coming to blows or Nial finally succeeding in forcing all the others to strangle him, made her way downstairs. She looked at Boz, who was to serve as best man, and strongly suggested, “I think that you and Nial should depart now so you won’t be late to the service.”

Sedgewick pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it, and then he looked around the room at the rather plaintively hopeful expressions. He said, “She’s right. Let’s go and get you and Heather married.”

Boz was surely a star was added to his heavenly crown for not pointing out that it was still an hour away from the ceremony and the walk to the kirk wouldn’t take five minutes. He practically had to drag Nial out the door. With every step Nial kept turning around to say, “You will watch out for her? You will be careful?”

At the end, Boz pretty much pushed the anxious groom outside.

******

As they walked down the stairs, Nial said, “I guess I’m a little worried. I’m driving everyone daft, aren’t I?”

“They passed daft a while back. I think they were drawing lots to see who'd get to kill you by the time we got out of there.” Boz would be able to torment his cousin for years with jabs about his berserk behavior, provided he managed to get hitched without Heather dying.

Nial stopped to lean against a tree, which was likely a good thing because he didn’t look too steady on his feet. The particular tree he chose had a view of the window of his room and he stood gazing at it, moonstruck in the middle of the afternoon. When Heather appeared for a moment, he blew a kiss.

“I love her so much. You hear about how love will sneak up and blindside you but until it happens, you just don’t understand how it is. Just wait, it’ll be your turn next,” Nial teased and managed a rather manic grin.

“Not me. After watching what you’ve gone through in the name of love, I’m planning to look for a nice little English chit I can marry and ignore. I’ll get her with child and then continue on with my mistresses and my clubs and forget all about her,” Boz said, but in his mind’s eye flashed a vision of a girl with straight black hair and purple eyes. He shook it off, and vowed to himself that he would never, ever fall in love.

They resumed walking but Boz stopped suddenly, struggling for balance as the landscape whirled like a storm-tossed ship. He grabbed the trunk of a tree for balance as faint hues of green tinged his complexion. The import didn’t escape Nial.

“Are you nauseous?”

He couldn’t lie to Nial. “Yes, I am.”

“Just now? Did it start just now?”

“No. It started a few minutes ago. It’s getting worse now.” Boz restrained Nial, who'd turned to dash back to the house. “You can’t go and grab her away from her family because that would tell the world that you don’t trust her father. You would start your marriage off with a father-in-law who believes you think him weak. That would be bad enough with any man, but it would be the kiss of death to tell another laird you don’t think he can protect his own daughter.”

Nial paused and squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to reveal so much of his soul to anyone. Sedgewick said nothing further, knowing he had made his case. Nial's decision was in his eyes when they snapped open. It was also in his posture because he coped by becoming the laird. He stiffened, threw back his shoulders and steeled his gaze as he turned toward the kirk, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “Shall we?”

They walked on to the kirk where the laird greeted Father McGiven somberly. The man was surprised by the laird's composure, but the twinkling in the father's eyes indicated that he didn’t expect it to last. Father McGiven always spoke with couples before the ceremony, and he had met with the lovely bride a few minutes earlier.

“Laird Maclee, I must be certain that you appreciate the import of the ceremony that will occur today. I impress this upon you particularly for your love of cavorting with the ladies is well known. Today you will promise me to give yourself only to your bride until one of you dies. That is a vow before God and I must have your word that you will keep it.”

Just that quickly, the priest’s words shredded the remnants of Nial's control. He intended to keep faith with Heather for the rest of their days. But how many would they number? Nial whirled wildly and the priest caught the laird's arm, ignoring the whispered word of caution from Maclee's kinsman. He was a man of God and would not shirk his duty.

"Son,” the father’s stern voice called, “I must have your pledge that you will keep faith with your wife or I’ll not give you the vows.”

The laird slammed the cleric against the wall of the chapel. “You braying ass, how dare you question my keeping of any vow, much less the one I have prayed my whole life to be able to take? I’ve no concern about the vows, merely a very pressing desire to get them said.”

Aware that the laird expected trouble, the priest was glad to escape the man’s clutches by ducking under his arm and scurrying away, as he said that he would check to be sure that all was in readiness for the ceremony.

Boz shook his head. “Attacking the priest is one of the less bright acts I’ve ever seen you commit.”

“I know. I just, Jesus, I want this over. The man is worried that I will be unfaithful to my wife? That concern is both paltry and needless. I am physically incapable of mating with any other woman.”

The corners of Nial’s mouth stretched into a tight smile at his cousin’s surprise. “If Heather should…” He stopped, unable to voice the thought specifically, and tried again. “If anything happens to her, one way or another, my days as a man are done.”

Nial stared anxiously at the pathway that the bride would not walk down for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. Boz excused himself to slip inside to comfort the priest, because there was a limit to how much of Nial’s anxiety even he could take. At a tap on his arm, Nial turned to find Calum at his elbow.

“I hear that today you will step into the trap with the mouse you schemed so hard to shun. I was called away by family illness and have missed the sweeping events leading up to this calamity. Truthfully, you do not look like a happy man. Tell me, is this wedding an occasion for joy or mourning?”

“Calum,” Nial’s eyes lit up at his friend, “It’s good to have you back. I have been concerned over what had befallen you. I’ve not seen you since the night I made the single biggest mistake of my life.”

“Sorcha? Well, when you mate with a snake you might get bitten. I do not see her about. Yet I suppose it is not unexpected that she might mourn your wedding even as she counts the days awaiting your return to her bed.”

Nial gave a genuine snort of laughter, “Were she capable of counting still, she would tally days without number on that score. She will trouble us no more.”

Calum had heard the story, but would have enjoyed hearing it from Nial’s lips. 'Twas too bad that he couldn’t press for that today. He would hear Nial state his feelings for Heather, however. “Do you avoid my inquiry? How did the elders press you into this marriage?"

The laird gave a real smile. “On the contrary, my friend. ‘Tis I who have been pressing and pushing. This day has been too long in coming for me. Heather is the one. She is my fated love and this day I join with her forever. I assure you, celebration will abound.”

Calum tilted his head and said, “Good, good. Well, I suppose I shall see you after the vows.” He turned and walked into the kirk, taking a seat on the back pew.

Nial resumed his pacing and his gazing at the path. He was still at it when Boz came outside to tell him it was time to join the father before the altar. The laird resisted his friend’s tugs and attempts to shepherd him inside. He had no claim to a sixth sense, but something urged him not to take his eyes off the path.

“She will be escorted by her father. Guards are everywhere. The guests are growing restless as the organist and the bagpiper has been playing for some time. You must come inside.” His tug was again resisted, so Boz reached for the heavy artillery. “You are here today to give your bride and her family the ceremony they desire. In that ceremony, the groom awaits the bride at the altar. You must come inside now.”

With greater reluctance than Boz had ever seen him show, Nial nodded and slowly made his way to the door. His tread slow and labored, the laird walked to the altar like an old man. The guests began to glance around uncertainly. None had ever seen the laird like this. All had seen or heard of the couple’s love and commitment to each other. Laird Maclee had been open enough about his feelings. What was this about?

It was an anxious group of three who waited at the altar and Nial’s face grew more grim with each second that passed.

******

At the house, Heather prepared to step outside on her father’s arm. Her mother had walked ahead so Carrick paused for a last moment alone with his little lass who would become a wife today. “I should ask you if this is what you want and if you are certain. I have the feeling that is not necessary and my concern would be misplaced. Is that true, Heather?”

Heather radiated happiness in her wedding finery. She refused to wear the dress hurriedly tailored by the London clothiers. She wore the ancient dress that brides of the Clan MacIver had worn for countless years. The fabric and lace was aged to a deep creamy hue that suited all of the shades of brown in her hair, and set off her golden eyes as though it had been crafted for her alone. The joy on her face answered her father's question before she spoke.

“I love Nial and I always have. I am still amazed that he loves me, but his actions have made it impossible to doubt his feelings. There is no concern, father, unless it is that my groom shall die of anxiety before the ceremony is done.”

“Daughter I find myself not at all anxious to give you away. However, I agree that your groom is terribly anxious to take you. In fact, I am a little surprised he hasn’t barged over to carry you to the kirk. Never saw a man in quite such a hurry to wed. Ready, little girl?” Carrick asked as he held the door and took her arm for the short walk to the chapel.

******

Inside the chapel, the change in music heralded the beginning of the ceremony. Nial panted for breath as he gripped the banister of the altar to keep from running to get his bride. Bonnie swept into the chapel and was seated. Heather would be next.

His eyes fixed upon the door but sudden agitated movement beside him caused him to dart his gaze to his best man. Boz bent in half, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Nial stopped breathing. Boz waved his hand toward the door.

Nial forgot to let go of the banister when he turned to dash out of the chapel. He heard the sound of wood breaking when he took a piece of the altar with him as he nearly flew to the chapel door. He jerked it open and ran outside.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Heather and her Father were laughing over how frantic Nial had been on the way to the kirk. When they rounded the last curve she stumbled over a stone. They were in sight of the kirk when she realized she had dropped her bouquet as she stumbled. Carrick ran back to retrieve it. She stood alone and unguarded for only a second, but it was the only second that the man waiting for her needed.

He darted out from behind the Dule tree she'd just passed. He drug her over to it and put the tree at his back. She covered him from the front. He fished for something under his jacket and she felt cold metal pressing against her right breast. By the time she opened her mouth to scream, Nial erupted from the kirk, leaping down the entire flight of stairs to land on his feet, only a short distance away.

"Hello, again, my friend," Calum said, spitting the word out like the vilest of insults. "Planning to call your warriors? None of them can help you now. The time for their help would have been during the search, when the lads confiscated all the weapons. Or should I say, most of the weapons. They allowed me to keep mine, for they believed me to be one of them still, a loyal little soldier. 'Twas easy to gammon them."

Nial gulped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carrick come to a lurching halt, clutching Heather's bouquet in his left hand, while his right hand lingered uselessly where Nial's did - on the butt of pistols they could not draw.

"Ahh, Papa is here now, too. Isn't that nice, Heather? Your father has made it in time for the grand finale," Calum said, as he veered the barrel of the pistol up and down between her exposed cleavage. "Neither of them will risk drawing their weapons. They know that my finger is right on the trigger. One nervous tick and then, bang - you'll be dead. They can kill me and doubtlessly will, but in the end, 'twill matter not at all."

Nial heard running feet and knew without looking that armed warriors from two clans stood with weapons poised and useless. Heather shivered and her eyes sought his for strength he wished he had. He held her gaze as he spoke to the man who now rubbed the barrel under the neckline of Heather's dress. "What is the meaning of this, Calum?"

Heather gave a squeal as the cold metal ventured further into her garment, but forced herself to hush when she saw the affect her distress had on Nial's composure. Calum noticed as well. "Oh, how sweet. Little Heather is being brave so that her beloved knight in shining armor doesn't get upset. Some bloody knight he turned out to be, ehh, sweetness? Look at him, the metal of my pistol plays where his mouth has surely cavorted many times and he stands as helpless as a lamb led to the slaughter. Ahh, but 'tis not he who shall face that fate. His death would be too fast and too noble. He'd far rather die a hero than face life without you."

Panic flared in Nial's eyes. He suppressed it quickly, but not quickly enough.

"That's right, my friend. Today your faerie fated forever is the lamb."

"What do you want?" Nial asked, his voice carrying the terror he couldn't conceal any longer. "Whatever it is, we can arrange it. I give you my word."

"Carte-blanche? And if I say I want your role? Will you entrust the Clan Maclee to me now, Nial?"

Without blinking, without pausing, ignoring the hissed caution from Boz, Nial said, "Yes."

"What if I want the clan and your life? Will you give me both?"

Again the reply came, immediately. "Yes." Then a deep breath, a long pause and words that sounded more like a prayer. "Just let her go. I'll walk over and take her place. You can kill me and take over as laird. Just don't hurt Heather."

"Stop," Calum said, halting Nial after a single step. "You'd trade the clan for her. You'd trade your life for hers. But I seek neither and need none of your arrangements that inevitably have you finishing at the head of the pack. You see, friend, what I want, you can't give me, for if you give it, I don't succeed. What do I want? Second place Calum shall finish first this time. I want to win. But if I'm to have only one victory against you, it must be the only one that matters."

"Calum," Nial said, jerking his eyes from Heather's by dint of will alone. "You've been my closest friend for years. For God's sakes, we played together as children. We ran races on foot and horseback, we learned to fight together, we swived our first lasses together, we...."

"And every time you won. You ran faster, your horses crossed the finish line first, you fought harder. And the lasses? Those not good enough for you anymore should do quite well for me, right? Well, not this time. Under the grief tree, Nial learns to lose." With his last word, Calum leapt around the lass, his arm already extended and he pulled the trigger.

“Noooooo,” Nial shouted, leaping the second Calum moved but he still couldn't outrun or outpace the lead ball that slammed into Heather. She fell back with blood spurting from her chest. He heard the sound of many shots and then a cackle that melted into a grunt before the other man made no more noise. He didn’t have to look up to know that Calum was dead. The knowledge gave him no joy. His world had narrowed to the scope of one small woman lying in his arms.

“Sweetheart, you promised you wouldn’t leave me. You promised. Now you have to hold on. I love you. You can’t leave me. Heather?” In his agitation the demand in his voice was unmistakable. He lost all grip on logic and his hold on sanity was fleeting. He bent closer as she spoke, covering her form with his own far too late to make a difference.

“I love you too, don’t grieve for me. You must go on. Promise?” She asked in broken and barely audible words. Her eyes spoke louder and carried knowledge of her impending death. In her final moments, her world also narrowed to the man who clutched her like he'd hold her here by dint of his will alone. She had not a single doubt of his love for her, for his soul was in his eyes, as he unreasonably resisted the efforts of Mac, the elderly healer who had spent most of his strength parting the crowd to kneel beside the bride.

At Mac’s repeated urgings Nial finally moved away just enough to allow the healer to attend her, but he didn't leave her side. He held her hand against his heart while the elder examined her and his lips moved ceaselessly saying words even Mac couldn’t hear. Only Heather knew the words were a prayer to a God he couldn’t believe in a moment later when Mac slowly straightened and looked at him with eyes as bleak as the message of the impending death they delivered.

Nial held his world and rocked her gently while he crooned words of love so tender that the crowd stepped back a pace. Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he bit his trembling lower lip to try to hold back the sobs that could only make this harder for her. His gaze met Carrick’s and then Bonnie’s, and he saw that her parents had already begun to mourn. Then he saw Boz, and hope had left his gaze too. All three cried quietly.

A thin trickle of blood emerged from Heather’s mouth and Nial lost his battle to hold back his wrenching sobs. The sobs were expelled against the swelling stream of blood as he whispered against her parted lips, “Sweetheart? Heather, you promised. Don’t leave me. You won’t leave me here alone, will you?”

“Nial,” she mouthed, the power of speech gone from her, “you must go on without me.”

The large crowd was completely quiet. Even the wind had stilled. Nial felt the light of hope leaving as life drained from the woman who held his heart. His hands clutched his chest, as he felt the pain of her loss in waves like an ever-tightening fist gripping his heart. That was when he felt it laying next to his heart where he had carried it every day since his father passed it to him as his last act on earth.

Nial backed away from Heather who was beyond feeling anything, as consciousness left her in these final moments. He stood, and his eyes met the puzzled gaze of Boz. Nial’s trembling fingers pulled the ancient pouch from the pocket next to his heart as his thoughts dwelled on the long ago ancestor who waved the flag to save a herd of dying cattle. He'd touched it rarely. The first time had been when his father explained its purpose, the next to toss it to the witch who bought her death by touching the flag forbidden to all but the laird. The last time had been to unfold it when he proposed to the faerie fated forever he'd found and won and by God should be able to keep. He'd never waved it to summon the faeries. His eyes veered to the elders.

“No. Laird Maclee. You can not.” Eaoseph spoke for the group, united in opposition. “The next use of the flag will be the last. If she dies it will be a tragedy, surely, but her death will not threaten the Clan Maclee. Our clan will survive whether or not she does. Only one use remains and it must serve the good of all. The life of this one woman is a matter of personal import to you and not of survival to the clan. Using the flag for this woman would violate your oath of duty to your clan. If you use the flag for the selfish purpose you contemplate you betray us all.”

Nial's fingers barely paused as he spoke. “If Heather dies, two will be buried in her plot and no hand of my family shall survive to wave the flag.” The gasps of the crowd did not deter his words. “If Heather dies then the Laird of the Clan Maclee will die by his own hand immediately after her.” The voice that had been so shaky as he bent over his dying lady a moment earlier was now firm and certain as he ignored the mutters of “blasphemy” and “he wouldn’t” to continue. “Heather and I are one heart and one soul. For me to try to live without her would be the act of a fool. If she dies today, so do I.”

With his final words, Nial pulled the old sky-blue fabric from the pouch. Like the immortal lady who had gave it so long ago, the fabric had not aged a day and looked newly woven. He waved the faerie flag three times, loudly speaking the words drilled into him by his father, words he never thought he would have to say.

“The Clan Maclee has need of the faeries to save it from sure and certain destruction. I call upon the sidhe for the promised help. Faeries appear. Faeries appear. FAERIES APPEAR.” His last cry was lost in the crash of thunder that accompanied the appearance of the regal King of the Faeries. Beside him, garbed in the glorious green that had won the heart of Ian Maclee generations ago, stood the Princess of the Faeries. Surrounding them, a vast number of warriors perched in battle posture, weapons at the ready.

“Why have you summoned us this day, Laird Maclee?” asked the King.

In the presence of such power Nial reacted with the stubborn refusal to recognize any man as his superior that was the hallmark of the Highlander. In a demanding tone, he replied, “My lady lies mortally wounded. Use your faerie magic to heal her.”

After a long silence, the King replied, “We decline.”

Heather’s breathing changed, growing irregular and intermittent. It came forth, when she managed it, with a loud clatter.

“The death rattle,” the King observed calmly.

In a still surly tone Nial said, “Damn you. She is my faerie fated love. As you well know, the lairds of my clan continue to labor under your cursed prophecy. I know you have watched my efforts to win her back. I know you have thrown obstacles in my path and laughed as you watched me struggle with them. Yet I won her love and her heart and she is to pledge me her future today. You must heal her!”

The King folded his arms over his chest. “We are not motivated by demands, Laird Maclee.”

Heather gave a long broken breath, exhaled with a coughing spasm and spurts of bright red. Nial forgot everything else and ran to her, collapsing beside her and wrapping her in his arms, willing her to draw another breath. It was a long time before the next one came and it emerged with a moan of pain as a small stream of blood began to fall from her nose. Nial’s composure visibly crumbled and he buried his face against the wound in her chest as his entire body shook with his sobs.

“Laird Maclee?” The King had to say the name several times before he succeeded in gaining the man’s attention again.

Nial stood on shaky legs to hobble towards the Faerie King. He was drenched in Heather’s blood, but his eyes retained a little of the stubborn laird as he spoke. “Please. Please help her. Please, “ He faced the King full on and said, “Please help me. I can’t live without her.”

“We might, mind you, just might be able to save her Laird Maclee. But, the price of our help is high. Likely, you would be unwilling to pay. Perhaps, we should leave,” and he turned as though to go.

“No,” Nial cried. “No price is too high. I will pay anything. I will do anything.” He stepped forward to touch the shining arm. His hand should have passed through that arm but it did not.

“The price is that which you value most - your pride and your dignity. Your clan and your neighbors watch the plea you have already made with distaste. They wait for you to tell me to go to Hell. Will you do that? The price my good laird, is that you must beg for my help. When you have begged pitifully enough, I might, mind you, just might give it to you.”

Nial stood quietly for a moment. He heard the elders hissing “no” and “tell them to sod off.” Then he heard another labored breath and had to struggle for his own. He had never begged and would rather do without than ask. Do without Heather? Impossible. She was the one thing he had to have to live. So he said, “I beg you for your help.”

The King laughed in a great crashing sound that reverberated through the crowd. “Nice try, but a man can only beg properly if he is on his knees. If you would have me save your lady, my proud Highland laird, you will break the fundamental code you all live by. You may not kneel properly to your God or your King, but you will get down on both knees before me and beg me for my help. YOU WILL HUMBLY BESEECH MY AID ON BENDED KNEES.”

Nial stood with his hands clenched into fists. He glanced at Carrick and Bonnie, and saw that they already grieved for their daughter. Heather drew in another loud breath. Nial vaulted to her side. She opened her eyes, and appeared to be conscious. He smoothed her hair and then bent and took her lips. He tasted her blood and thought of their digging a hole and putting her in it. What if he took his own life and as a final act of vengeance the elders refused to bury him with her? An eternity separated from Heather. No. That could not be. The thought was intolerable.

He would never beg for his own life. But Heather’s, well, that was different. If he begged for her on his knees he would shame himself before his clan, her clan and the assembled guests. Hell, he would shame himself before all of Scotland. Could he live with that? From infancy he was taught that pride made a man and he lived that lesson every day. Could he force himself to beg on bended knees for her life? Could he let her die knowing there was any possibility that he could have saved her?

Regretfully, he kissed her hand and walked over to stand before the King. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

An audible gasp rose arose from the crowd as they realized that the laird was actually considering the demand. Carrick walked to Nial’s side. “Son, you are a Scot and the laird of your clan. Your heritage and our culture say that you should not consider this demand. I don’t know that I could ... I’m nearly positive I couldn’t do it to save her, not even to save my wife. You must let Heather go. The price is too high.”

Raibeart shouted, “Not a man here would consider it, laird. You can’t go down on bended knees and beg and still pretend you're a man, much less a Highlander. Do it and you lose the respect of every person who ever walked Scottish soil. Do it and you shame every ancestor of your line. You’ve fulfilled the dratted curse. This one can die and you can marry and not have to worry that your fate is out there somewhere waiting for you. You can marry another woman and forget this one.”

Considering the elder’s words, Nial addressed the King. “That’s why you do this isn’t it? My ancestor put aside his love for your daughter and pledged himself to another. You give me the same choice, don’t you? Would you have relented if Ian had begged for your daughter on bended knees, Your Highness?”

The King had his own hands clenched into fists by this time and for a moment Nial thought he would not answer. Then the King threw back his head and growled, “The day we came for her on the bridge I told him that I would consider letting her stay if he begged for her on bended knees. The bastard replied that he begged for nothing. So yes, Laird Nial. I put the choice to you today. Will you humble yourself for Heather?”

The Princess heard for the first time that her father had loved her enough to put her happiness first. “You would have done that for me Father?” He nodded yes and she kissed his cheek.

The King looked at the lady who started twitching as the throes of death approached. She breathed intermittently in uneven chains of rattling gasps. “Decide, Nial. Quickly. Or else, her death will make your decision for you.”

Nial watched his world, knowing she would be gone in minutes leaving him with his manhood intact. He recalled his earlier words to his cousin and suddenly he knew - pride didn’t make a man. Love made a man. He could keep his pride and lose his love but without her he wouldn’t be a man anyway. He might die for his pride, but he would never sacrifice Heather for it. In the final analysis, his choice was easy. The unthinkable wasn’t so unthinkable at all.

Nial grimaced as he bent down to one knee. The act was physically painful. He heard loud shouts of “No” from the crowd as his eyes met those of the Faerie King. He unlocked the other knee to slowly lower it to the ground. As both knees met the soil, loud rattling gasps told him that she was about to leave him.

What would he do to keep Heather? He would do anything. He would do everything. He would betray every oath and duty. He would thrust aside his pride, his dignity and even his manhood and beg like a trained hound.

Nial did just that, suddenly overcome with the knowledge that he had best do it quickly and he had best get it right the first time. Heather hovered at the verge of death. She would be lost to him forever. At the unimaginable thought, no pride remained in the gaze of the man who bent before the King in abject supplication. All that remained was a plea from his soul.

He bowed his head and kissed the extended royal hand and spoke in a tone void of anything but entreaty and love, unfettered and boundless. “Please. I beg you to save Heather.” Tears fell unchecked from his eyes as he humbled himself in view of the crowd who mocked him loudly. All of their jeers and taunts of “coward,” and “pathetic fool” and even “misplace your manhood laird?” went unheeded.

“I beg you, Your Majesty. Please. She is my heart and my soul. She is my life. She is my world. What good is pride without Heather? What good is anything without her? She carries, or carried, our child. She is my future and I can't live without her. I beg you to help her. Please?”

At the final plea, the hard knot of rage that the King had carried for generations crumbled. He smiled because Nial was so focused on his groveling that he didn’t see the King make a motion with his hand that caused a faerie knight to touch a sword to his ladies’ head. Nial’s head remained bowed in supplication as he begged without pausing for so much as breath. “Please, please. I beg you, please.”

The King turned his hand over to take Nial’s as he said, “She still carries the child, Laird Maclee. We look forward to playing with him as he comes to adulthood and faces The Choice. We look forward to seeing if he chooses as wisely as his father who has gained his love and three additional uses of the flag for his clan.”

Before the meaning of the King’s words penetrated the dense fog of grief and loss surrounding Nial’s brain, he heard a voice. At first he assumed he imagined it because he wished so hard for it. Had he slipped into insanity? It was a female voice and it sounded like Heather.

“Nial?” What was going on here? She was lying in the dirt in her wedding dress surrounded by a crowd of angry people who seemed to be jeering unspeakably horrible things at Nial. At her feet stood a host of shining, brightly garbed folk. They were faeries. It was easy to identify the regal one wearing the crown as their King. What she couldn’t identify or make sense of in her brain was what Nial was doing.

Her proud Highland Laird was on bended knee before the King. Two knees, not one. The begging posture. His head bowed in humble supplication as he repeated the words “please” and “I beg you” over and over. His clothes were filthy and covered with blood. What could possibly make Nial beg? He wasn’t wounded was he? Was Nial hurt?

At the thought, she sat up but found herself too dizzy to rise. The crowd gasped. Her mother turned to her and screamed, “Praise the Lord God,” and none of it distracted Nial. So finally she screamed, at the top of her lungs. “Nial Maclee, get over here and explain this to me.”

He looked up and his future was in his eyes as he met the smiling gaze of the Faerie King. Then he lurched toward Heather so suddenly that he had to catch himself on his hands to keep from falling face first in the dirt. She was alive. He hadn’t lost her. He might have lost the respect of every person who stood in the crowd, but he hadn’t lost Heather.

She was all he needed.

He tried to rise to his feet but was too shaken to make it. He crawled to her, finding he couldn’t speak, and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus. She was alive. His hands went to her chest where the gaping hole had poured forth her life’s blood moments ago. The wound was gone as though it had never been. She blushed, and her eyes fogged with a complete lack of comprehension as to what was going on. He realized that to her, it must seem that his hands were fondling her in view of a large crowd.

Yet, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pause in his examination. He patted her down from head to toe. He ignored her protests for modesty and even turned her over to examine her rear. He patted each inch of her and could find no wound. Still, he wasn’t assured so he turned her back over and began examining her front again before he called for Mac. Nial’s hands wandered continually and the healer had to ask him to cease so he could examine the lady properly. A moment later Mac pronounced her “fit as a fiddle.”

She was well?

Nial threw back his head and laughed, filled with joy beyond bearing. He was laughing too hard to answer her, and she didn’t like being ignored, so she pounded on his chest as she demanded he stop acting like a mad man and explain all of this immediately.

Instead, when he finally found his voice, he turned to the faerie host and looked at the King. “Thank you. I wish I had words for what your gift means to me.” He was already taking Heather into his arms as he finished. “She is everything and my pride was a very tiny price to pay to still be able to do this.”

With his final words he took Heather’s lips in a tender kiss, too full of the vision of her lying near death to give his passion free rein. He kept his eyes open and saw the faerie host floating to the clouds and heard the King’s hearty laughter the entire time. He waved, before he turned his full attention to the woman who, by God, would be his wife in a moment. Well, he would make sure they were wed as soon as he could lift his lips and stop reveling in the fact that this would not be their last kiss.

She tried to rise, but he still saw her, in his mind’s eye, lying there as her life’s blood left her. She was still here, and he would keep her. He rose and scooped her up in his arms, ignoring her protests that she was fine. He called for his guard and the warriors surrounded them. His eyes searched for the priest among the crowd. He refused to allow anyone, including Boz or her parents to approach them. In the pressing crowd he could not find the father so he called for him. The priest appeared, wearing the biggest smile Nial had ever seen.

“Father, we will exchange the vows right this minute.” Nial demanded, providing full proof to the crowd that the supplicant was gone and the Highland laird had returned.

“I don’t know if I will promise anything until you put me down and explain to me what exactly has been going on here,” Heather began in a demanding voice. Her demand was softened by the absolutely besotted look in Nial’s eyes as he gazed at her. She looked up at him and saw again the blood and was reminded of her fear that he was wounded. “Nial, for goodness sake, put me down so I can examine you.”

“Sweetheart, I’m fine. The blood was yours.” His assurance wasn’t enough for her, and he looked at her within the circle of his arms and realized that like him, she would not be assured until she had examined him with her own two hands.

After sweeping the area with his eyes, and repeated assurances from his warriors that they would guard her safety, he put her down, but kept her within the tight circle of his arms. She ignored the gathered, pressing crowd completely as she examined him with the same care he had shown her. By the time she finished, his shirt was open and her hands patted his bare chest, ceaselessly seeking the wound that must be producing all of the blood that coated his garments. She was puzzled, for she could find no wound.

“Nial, if there is no wound, where is all of this blood coming from?”

“My love, I am fine. The blood is yours.”

“Mine?” She chuckled, “But that is impossible. I am not hurt. I am quite fine”

“You are fine now, thanks to faerie magic.” The humor left his gaze as his eyes darkened to show the horror of unimaginable loss that would haunt the dark corners of his mind for the rest of his life. They darkened to show the fear that would keep his lovely Heather close by his side for every moment of their future.

“You were shot, love and you were very close to breaking your word and dying and leaving me here to face forever without my faerie fated love. However, thanks to the magical touch of a faerie sword you seem to be fine. The healer has now pronounced you well.” His face took on the stubborn look that would brook no disagreement as he continued.

“I am done with ceremony and rules that would have you walk away from me. Within the circle of my arms you will be safe. There you will stay.” He turned to glare at Carrick who looked guilty as Nial shouted, “Unlike your father, who would leave your side for something as inconsequential as flowers, I will keep you within my arms from this moment forward.” Carrick hushed his wife who wanted to protest the insult. Just now he couldn’t argue with the man who put aside clan and pride for love of his daughter.

Carrick whispered to his wife. “Love, cease. Boz and I are already taking bets on how long he will insist on keeping Heather right within his arms.”

The irrepressible laird was back in force as he said, softly so that only Heather heard, “Immediately after we are wed I will whisk you away to our bridal chamber. There I promise that I shall answer your questions and you shall relieve the ache that now flourishes for all to see thanks to your thorough examination.”

She looked at him questioningly and her wide-eyed golden gaze saw that his shirt was wide open (Good Lord, she had apparently torn it in her worry) and his nipples had drawn into hard buds of need that her mouth went dry in a sudden desire to taste. The front of his kilt was tented with the pressing ache just mentioned. As she blushed, she licked her lips and he threw back his head and laughed.

“Perhaps it is fitting, my sweet. A few minutes ago, my pleas to the Faerie King for the magic that saved you provided ample evidence to the crowd that I love you beyond all else. Now, as we are finally united, your touch has proved that my love is joined in full measure by those claws of passion. Thus, no one here doubts that you are, indeed, my faerie fated forever.”

Father McGiven waited not a moment longer. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining…….”

After a ceremony that may have set records for its brevity, the priest pronounced them married. The groom’s obvious arousal grew throughout the ceremony. Thus, it surprised no one that the bridal kiss was a passionate possession, a branding, a giving and a taking. It was long and thorough and as it concluded, the crowd pressed forward to offer congratulations.

Nial ignored them all to scoop his wife into his arms to take her to their bridal bower. He barked at those, including her own mother, who tried to be presumptuous enough to remove her from his immediate touch. As he kicked the bedroom door closed behind them, he was already raising the skirt of her gown and his kilt. He was buried within her less than ten minutes after they were formally married.

The knot in his throat made it almost impossible to speak, but Nial tried, growling more than stating, “Thank God for faeries, sweetheart. The words were nice but this is our union.”

His haste had been to join. Now he slowed and took her tenderly and with each thrust he called out his love for her. When it was over, he collapsed in her arms, and she said, “Nial, you….. you begged for me.”

“Jesus, you… you saw?” Somehow, he had hoped that she hadn’t witnessed him on his knees, pitifully begging for the only help he knew how to summon. He rolled off her and interrupted her gruffly, overcome suddenly with the fear that she would see him as less of a man.

She repeated her question, “Why?”

If he had been willing to display the depth of his love for the world, he could hardly shirk from confessing it to her. So his navy blue gaze met hers fully as he spoke, “My love, you know I was worried before the ceremony. We were expecting trouble, but it wasn’t open trouble, but a hidden threat from an enemy who wore the face of a friend. It was Calum who has apparently hated me for years. He saw himself as second best. He said that he lost competitions that I always thought were friendly contests. He measured himself by some calculation of his own making and created a fiendish scheme to make me lose the only competition I ever cared about. Somehow, he thought that made him a winner. What did he win?"

"Calum...how bizarre. I spent a fair amount of time with him on Skye. I always liked him. He even saw my odd eyes and my cursed hair and..."

"He knew?" Nial asked, jolted. "He knew of your beauty? Had I realized that, I might have put it together and prevented all of this. You're okay?"

"After what we just did, now you ask that?" She teased but regretted it when she saw fear flash in his eyes. She hastened to reassure him. "I'm fine. Well, I'm almost fine. I may die of curiosity if you don't tell me why you knelt before the faeries today."

His soul was in his eyes when he said, “Sweetheart, I told you that you meant more to me than anything else, but until today, even I didn’t know how true that was. The Faerie King demanded that I beg. No one expected me to do it; no one wanted me to do it. But the plain fact is, though I balked and refused at first, when I weighed my pride against losing you forever, well, there was no question.”

He turned and asked the question that would torment him forever if he didn’t know. “Love, do you see me as less of a man because you saw me on my knees, begging?”

Her eyes filled not with the scorn he feared, but with worship that made his chest expand again and suddenly made him feel like strutting and crowing. Her words only made the feeling grow.

“Husband, today, you challenged death for me and won. That doesn’t happen in real life, it only happens in faerie tales. My Prince Charming, you have made me believe in faerie tales again. Now, we get to the best part, the happily ever after part.”

He was her proud Highland laird as he answered. “I must disagree, love. How about, satisfied ever after instead? Oh and lass, I don’t have a glass slipper but I have something else that I know will fit and I think you’ll enjoy it a lot more.”

It did, she did, and they lived satisfied ever after – and happily ever after too.

Up in the clouds, the faeries mourned the mating game that had ended for this laird. They perked up though when they remembered the little one. anticipated all the mischief they would brew with the anxious father-to-be and then all the fun they would have with the next laird as he faced the choice.

Hmm, they heard that Nial and Heather would name the baby Ian in gratitude and tribute to the first laird, whose connection with the faeries had saved the life of Lady Maclee.

Imagine how much fun they would have with him!

END