Page 2 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

She rose to her feet wishing for nothing other than to leave his presence. “I’ll take me leave then, me laird. Tomorrow me crew will make preparation and we shall be sail by nightfall.”

He stood and took a step towards her, running his hand down her arm, toying with her glove, the symbol of his power over her.

“Wait awhile, Aileen.” His voice was commanding. He’d brook no disagreement. “I fancy a wee moment of enjoyment wi’ ye.”

She managed to repress a shudder of revulsion as he took her in his arms and pressed a harsh kiss on her lips, his hands freely roaming her body.

She feigned desire, weaving her arms around his neck and toying with his dark locks. She accepted his tongue in her mouth, moaning a little as he took her, appearing for all the world the way she imagined a woman enamored and hopelessly lost to passion would be.

Damn him!

When she was at last granted permission to leave and return to her sparse, cold chamber, she was glad of this new assignment. It would take her far from Dunrobin Castle and the Laird Andrew Sutherland.

CHAPTER ONE

November 1309

Ullapool, Scotland, near the shores of Loch Broom

Maxwell MacNeil rubbed his calloused hands together, savoring the warmth emanating from the fire blazing merrily in the smoky tavern’s hearth. Outside, the icy wind howled with the ferocity of a wolf pack, causing him to clutch his cloak a little tighter. He reached for the tankard of ale on the table in front of him and took a hearty gulp, his first sup of ale in months.

There was satisfaction in knowing his older brother, Laird Everard, would be well pleased when Maxwell relayed the success of their mission. He and his men would be homeward bound tomorrow and if Lady Luck was with them, in two days’ time they’d be dining in Barra Castle, basking in Everard’s gratitude and well rewarded for their troubles. There’d be rowdy shouts of approval from the clansmen, and fair-eyed lasses eyeing them with lust in their gaze. The ale would flow and thetales of battle would ring out through the castle’s great hall. Maxwell’s lips curled in a half smile as he turned to his cousin James Anderson, who was seated by his side.

“Aye lad. We’ll both sleep in the bedroom up the stairs. The good landlord has given us his room fer the night and found stalls for the men at the back of the stables.” He offered a grin. “I daresay they’re raising the roof with their snores by now.”

James chuckled, raising his pewter in salute. “Slàinte Mhath, lad. Tae yer good health. Ye’ve brought them all safe through the midst of battle and we have much to thank ye for. Ye’re a fine warrior and a good leader, Maxwell.”

Maxwell turned his gaze back to the fire. Such praise for simply doing his duty to his laird did not sit comfortably on his broad shoulders, yet it warmed his soul to ken he had the respect of his men. He finished his tankard and signaled to the tavern-keeper to bring him another.

Out of habit that his eyes made a sweep of the room. After all, who kent whether an enemy might be sitting too close for comfort? But there were few souls still at large and, save for one table in the corner, where a pair of men with grey hair were comfortably seated, chatting, and a noisy table of younger men who, in their worn britches and rough leather tunics, had the appearance of farmhands, there was only one other occupant.

A woman. Alone.

At once his attention was ensnared by the solo figure. She was seated at a small table near the doorway and, for all the world, was as calm as a summer’s day, quietly supping on a tankard. She suddenly turned her head and their eyes met. Perhaps she felt his eyes on her, or perhaps she had been drawn to him as he had been to her. Something shivered through him as he felt himself consumed by her green cat’s-gaze, her full lips parted in a teasing smile. He returned her smile and nodded.

If it was a challenge she was after, he was up for it. He’d had nay lassie warming his bed since they’d departed Barra all those months ago and he was more than ready to break the drought this night. His groin twitched pleasurably as he contemplated the prospect of bedding the lass.

She’d a glorious mane of red hair, liberally streaked with rose-gold, that flowed free over her shoulders, half-covering the hood of her fur cloak. His curiosity was piqued. He wanted her to rise to her feet so he could glimpse what the rest of her was like, although he was rather certain she was slim and sleek.

It was then he took heed of the gloves she wore that extended beyond her elbows. She toyed with the fabric, smoothing the green velvet along her arms, making him think of the velvet of her warm, bare skin as he ran his hands over it while she lay moaning with pleasure beneath him. There was that twitch again, stronger now.

Maxwell took his time to study the woman. She wasnae young, mayhap similar in age to himself – and he was fast approaching thirty. The softness of youth had fled and her face was clear-shaped, fine-boned, with a straight nose, dark brows and wide green eyes. Her cheeks were berry-brown, which spoke of time spent outdoors. But she’d nae the weathered look of a farm girl. Her smooth skin shone in the firelight, and he was taken by her elegant beauty.

James looked over, raising a dark brow as he caught the drift of Maxwell’s attention. “Aye lad. she’s a beauty. ‘Tis time ye enjoyed a little dalliance with a lively lass. Ye’ve thought of naught but battles long enough.” He cast Maxwell a mischievous grin. “And ye, big oaf that ye are, wi’ yer broad chest and yer ink markings covering every inch of ye, are just the very sort of lad the lassies go crazy for.”

This last was greeted with a grunt from Maxwell. “’Tis true, I’ve nae had room in me head fer any thoughts other than doing Everard’s work.” He glanced at the woman again. She had, by now, turned back to the fire. “But somehow this lass doesnae strike me as the kind who’d go crazy fer any man.”

James seized his tankard and swilled the last of his ale. “Well, there’s but one way tae find out, and that’s tae take yerself over to where she sits and bid her hello.” He rose to his feet. “I bidyegoodnight and good luck.” James gave a brief salute, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Maxwell groaned. James was right, of course. It was not like him to be in the least reluctant to approach a lass in a tavern, haughty and elegant looks notwithstanding. Yet there was something about this woman that signaled she was different to any other woman he’d known. He gave his head a slight shake, dismissinghis doubts. With the challenge of her smile uppermost in his thoughts, he placed his tankard on the table and stood, intending to see what possibilities the night – and the lass – had in store.

At that moment one of the young men who’d been drinking with his friends staggered to his feet and, obviously spurred on by the same thoughts as Maxwell’s, made his unsteady way toward the seated woman.

In three strides Maxwell reached her, just as the lad raised a burly arm and seized her by the shoulder. She went to twist away, but he held fast.

“Take yer hand off me.” Her voice rose in indignation at this unwanted intrusion.

“Ye heard the lady.” Maxwell gritted his teeth, his big hands curling into fists. He was used to dealing with battle-hardened warriors and this lad was a mere pup whose neck he could snap in a trice. “If ye value yer good health, I’d let her be.” His voice was quiet but well-oiled with menace.

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