Possessed by the Highlander

But in those next minutes before his friend appeared, his thoughts were filled not with alliances and treaties, but with the image of one woman who tried very hard not to let her true appearance show through.

And he knew not even her name.

Marian cursed herself a fool as she tried to catch her breath. In spite of her attempts to remain calm, her heart raced and her chest hurt from the fear. Not of Laren, who truly was more a nuisance than a danger, but of the stranger who’d stepped in to save her from harm. Before she could think on his dark gaze and tall stature, a small voice cried out to her.

“Mama!” her daughter cried before running into her skirts and wrapping her small arms around her legs. “Mama…” The words drifted off and were replaced by sobs.

“Ciara, my sweet,” she soothed, peeling her daughter loose and pulling her into her arms. “We are well, my love,” she whispered, smoothing the pale hair back and out of her eyes. Marian sat down, arranged Ciara on her lap and rocked her until she stopped crying.

When Laren surprised her while she worked in her garden, Marian had ordered Ciara inside. They had practiced such a thing from the time they’d returned to Dunalastair from her father’s distant holdings in the south. Living apart from her family, alone without the protection of a husband or father, could present dangers of a sort she wished to avoid. Even if most had not realized who she was, a woman alone with a child could be a dangerous thing to be.

Ciara knew to run into the cottage and hide next to the cupboard, if need be. Marian had always prayed it would not be necessary, but today had shown her she could probably not escape her past. Ciara quieted in her arms and Marian loosened her hold just a bit. Kissing her on the head, she whispered to her of her love and her pride that Ciara had followed her instructions. So, her daughter’s words came as a surprise and reminded her of that which she was trying to avoid thinking on—the stranger who had come to her aid.

“Mama, who was the man?” Ciara asked, rubbing her eyes and lifting her head from Marian’s chest. “Is he gone?”

“That was Laren, my sweet, and yes he is gone. He will not bother us again, I think,” she said, trying to reassure the child.

“Not him, Mama. The nice one who smiled at me.”

Marian lost her words, for she would not have thought the man who stepped forward to help her could smile or be nice. His face was filled with stern, angry eyes and chiseled, masculine angles that had no softness and certainly no smiles. With his huge dagger drawn and dark expression she feared she would be his target once he’d disposed of Laren. He’d stood taller than even her older brother Iain and was broader in the shoulders than even Ranald the blacksmith here in the village. A shiver raced through her.

Formidable might be a more accurate way to describe him.

Yet, even at the moment when she knew he was aware of her fear, she did not feel in danger. His sheer physical presence overwhelmed her, but not a sense that he would attack her. ‘Twas obvious that her daughter was simply having the fanciful thoughts that young children seemed to have at times.

“I dinna ken him,” she whispered to Ciara, whose head began to drop against her.

Growing fast, but still a bairn in so many ways, her daughter still napped most days. Now that the excitement was past, Ciara began sliding into sleep in her arms. Marian gathered her back close and hummed a soft tune to guide her way to sleep. A few minutes later, she carried her to the bed and laid her on it. After watching Ciara settle in and covering her with a woolen blanket, Marian lifted the bar on the door and went back outside to make certain no one was there.

The late summer breezes moved through the trees, but there was a hint of something cooler in the air. In just a few weeks, the clan would prepare to harvest most of the crops they’d planted in the surrounding fields and the drovers would plan which herds would be moved from the hills to winter grazing and which would be slaughtered or sold. Marian looked over at her own garden plot and knew she would be busy picking and drying the herbs she grew for use in the coming winter.

Walking around the perimeter of her small cottage and garden plot, she looked for any signs of incursion, or of the stranger who has walked in and out of her life so quickly. Nothing looked amiss, her garden lay peaceful and no sign of trampling appeared. Marian lifted her head and listened to the sounds of the day as it passed. Birds flew overhead, trees rustled in the wind, clouds floated across the sky, just as they should on this September day.

If not for the racing of her heart and the blood pounding through her veins, even she would have thought it a usual day in Dunalastair. Marian tried to concentrate on those tasks she still needed to complete, but all she could do was think of the stranger who had stepped in to protect her.

All she could see in her mind were his eyes—so dark to be almost black—gleaming in anger at Laren and then with intensity at her when he mentioned seeing to her daughter inside the cottage. And it was those expressions along with his strong and masculine stature that now made it difficult to breathe.

For not once had she, the Robertson Harlot, ever found a man to be so intriguing to her. Never had she let down her guard in the last five years and allowed herself to be affected by a man. ‘Twas so much danger in even considering such a lapse in control to occur that it never occurred to her to be on guard against such a thing.

She’d expected the nuisances of men such as Laren, at least once the news of who she really was got out. Her brother would give orders that would frighten away any serious approaches.

But she’d never expected the danger to come from such a stranger, and, after looking into his deep, dark eyes, she knew he was more dangerous than any who had come before him and any who would come after. It was the memory of his eyes that plagued her all through the day.

Chapter Two

Duncan spied the bridge as they rode toward it on the road and his stomach tightened. ‘Twas the way of it when he approached a new series of negotiations. His gut was ever his weakness, but his thoughts were clear and focused for now. His two days of visiting and talking with Ranald revealed no surprises that should cause problems with the laird.

Indeed, he discovered that the Robertsons were as strong and well-managed as his reports had said. Word was out now that once this alliance was in place, the laird would seek a new wife from the northern clans to further cement and strengthen their position as the guardians of Scotland. Some worrisome rumors still floated about regarding the new laird some years ago—while his father still lived—and, as Duncan knew from his own laird’s experience, rumor and innuendo could destroy a reputation quickly. So, a move toward a new marriage, after his first one ended in the death of his wife in childbirth, was a good one on the laird’s part.

One of his men called out and Duncan looked at the road ahead of them. A contingent of heavily armed Robertson warriors awaited them on the other side of the bridge. Straightening up on his own mount, he warned his men before going on.

“You have your orders and know the importance of what we do here. From here on, report anything untoward to me. Bring your questions to me. Agree to nothing in Connor’s name.”

“Do we need yer permission to piss then, too, Duncan?” asked Hamish from behind.

“Aye, Hamish, e’en that,” he replied without breaking a smile. “More importantly, watch your drink and watch out for the lasses. Those two things can cause a man more trouble than almost anything else.”

He took their grumbling as assent and nudged his horse forward. Adjusting the tartan and badge on his shoulder, Duncan led the MacLeries over the bridge and into Dunalastair. The Robertson’s man greeted them formally and invited them to follow to the entrance of the keep still some distance away and Duncan nodded and accepted the welcome.

It was only as he found himself searching the faces of the villagers who’d gathered to watch their arrival that he realized he was looking for her.

He’d carefully controlled the growing curiosity within himself to ask about her when he stayed with Ranald. He did not stray from Ranald’s croft or smithy and did not seek out neighbors or villagers in order to remain anonymous. But, the urge to know more about her increased until now he found himself examining the face of everyone who stood watching along the path.

And not finding her.

Cursing himself for not remaining on task, he realized he’d slowed his pace while he had gawked. Caelan, the Robertson who led them, turned back to say something, but his gaze moved off to something in the shadows along one of the other paths. Following it, Duncan discovered the woman he’d been thinking about and the little girl. They stood back, away from the other villagers, far enough to be out of the way, yet close enough to see what had drawn the Robertson soldiers to the village.

The girl was tucked deeply into her mother’s skirts, only her head was visible as she said something to the woman. The woman leaned down and answered the child without ever taking her eyes off Caelan. Glancing back at the laird’s younger brother, Duncan noticed the protective gaze and began to wonder if the woman was Caelan’s leman. Just a few moments after he’d found her, she disappeared into the maze of cottages, dismissed by just a nod from Caelan.

If he’d forgotten his own instructions, he found himself reminded of them by a very distinctive clearing of the throat by Hamish. The others took it up for only a second, but he knew that his attention to the woman had been noticed by them, too. He quelled the minor rebellion with a glance of his own and then quickened the pace to move along the path faster.

Forcing his thoughts on what awaited them at the keep, Duncan was able to think on numbers of men the clan could call on in battle and the number of cattle the Robertson clan owned and how many meetings and talks faced him in the next few weeks. And he would later pride himself that he only thought about the woman with the pain in her gaze and the lovely child at her feet once during the ride to the keep.

Holy Mother, protect her!

Marian clasped Ciara’s hand in hers and practically ran toward her cottage. Making it a game so her daughter would not object, she sang a ditty and counted the stones along the way. The words sounded strange to her, but it was the beating of her heart that almost blocked out every sound around her.

Caelan! Caelan was there!

She’d mistook him for someone else as he rode by the place where she stood, backed enough into the shadows of the surrounding crofts to be unnoticeable to anyone. The noise of the soldiers’ arrival at the bridge, the excitement of the news of the MacLerie’s man’s entrance into the village and the purpose of his presence all fueled the gossip that swirled through the small village.

Visitors were always of interest, but a man who carried with him the tidings and power of the one still called, though in whispered tones, the Beast of the Highlands, was something that would stir anticipation and storytelling for weeks to come. Curious, Marian had followed some of the women to observe their arrival.

Then, the first shock had hit her.

The man who led the MacLerie soldiers was the stranger who’d chased Laren away just three days past! Oh, he was dressed better now, with his clan badge gleaming on the plaid he wore over his shoulder, but she would have recognized that face and those eyes anywhere. Now he had eight warriors at his back as he rode into Dunalastair. He had not seen her yet, so she ducked back a bit, drawing Ciara with her.

Then the second shock of the day—her youngest brother Caelan led the soldiers to the keep. She’d heard he had returned recently but had not seen him anywhere near the village. Her father had sent him off to foster with a cousin near Skye about three years before…before…before everything had happened five years ago. He must have nigh on ten-and-six years now and be almost a man. Iain must have great faith and trust in Caelan to allow him the honor of escorting such a guest into Dunalastair.

Marian reached her cottage and sat down on a stool she kept near the entrance to her garden. Usually a place for her to clean the plants she harvested or the cuttings she culled, she plopped down and tried to calm her racing heart. When Ciara touched her wet cheek and asked why she was sad, Marian realized she’d been crying all the way from the road when she first saw Caelan. Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she took in a deep breath and let out a ragged one before she even tried to speak.

“I am not sad, my sweet,” she said, pasting on a smile she neither wanted nor felt. “‘Twas simply the excitement of seeing so many horses and men and everyone gathering around.”

“Did you see the big black horse?” Ciara asked. “It was the biggest horse I have ever seen!”

Marian laughed then, for Ciara loved horses. In spite of not having one at her disposal as she had in her father’s house, she’d passed her love of them down to her daughter just by stories and sightings.

“He did seem to be the largest one.” Marian wiped the last of the moisture off her cheeks and smiled then. “I thought brown was your favorite color?”