Highlander Ever After

  Zarabeth firmed her jaw so her teeth wouldn’t chatter. “Perhaps you’d be happier if I fell to the floor wailing and tearing my hair?” She tried to make her tone light. “A pleasant way to celebrate a wedding.”

  Egan’s voice softened to the low growl that had always made her heart speed. “This is me, Zarabeth. Are we not still friends?”

  Zarabeth’s practiced smile faded. “Are we?”

  “I’ve always considered us so.”

  Zarabeth’s face heated as the memory of the last time she’d seen him flashed into her head. She’d been eighteen, foolish, and besotted. She hoped he’d forgotten what a little idiot she’d been.

  Egan had come to visit her father not long after the end of the war, a little more than five years ago now. One night during this visit he’d gone out to the village tavern near her father’s estate and returned long after the household had gone to bed. Zarabeth had spent the time he was out perfecting a love charm she wanted to try on him.

  She remembered the eagerness with which she’d sat in her chamber, candles lit, inscribing runes of love and devotion on the clear crystal she’d chosen for the spell. She had saved that crystal for a long time, wanting to use it for something special. She’d been certain, as she worked, that Egan would be hers that night.

  She’d hung the charm around her neck and waited for him in the deserted drawing room below. She remembered the warm closeness of the room, the scent of wax from the spent candles, the deep shadows that were familiar rather than frightening.

  Zarabeth had called out softly to him when he’d entered the house, and Egan had come into the darkened chamber, smiling his Highlander smile. He’d smelled of the strong Nvengarian whisky he liked and smoke from the tavern.

  “What is it ye’re wanting, lass?” he’d asked quietly, mindful of the sleeping house.

  Her heart pounding, Zarabeth had come to him, put her hands on his chest, and asked in a whisper, “Egan, will you kiss me?”

  Egan had stared at her at first, as though uncertain he’d heard aright. Then, just as she thought he’d turn away and leave her, he’d leaned down and rested his lips lightly on hers.

  The touch had ignited a fire Zarabeth hadn’t realized she’d possessed. Her girlish dreams had flooded away as the longings of a woman washed over her. She’d moved her mouth to kiss him back, knowing she was unpracticed, but not caring. She only wanted Egan, with her, touching her.

  Egan had lost all hesitation. He’d opened her lips with his, giving her a man’s kiss, a lover’s kiss, as he pressed her back against the wall. His tongue had swept into her mouth, hot friction that had made her knees weak.

  Zarabeth recalled with clarity the wall behind her, the chair rail molding against her hips, the cool of the wallpaper on her back. Egan’s mouth had been hard on hers, tasting of whisky and maleness. The space between her legs had ached, and she’d nearly slid to the floor in a puddle of need.

  Egan had whispered her name, laced his arm around her, and deepened the kiss. His mouth had been hot, his tongue a point of pleasure, taking her, claiming her. She waited for him to say the words she’d longed to hear—I love you, Zarabeth.

  Instead he’d started, his eyes opening as though he suddenly realized what he was doing. He’d backed away abruptly, his expression much the same as the one he’d worn this morning when he’d leapt out of the bed at the inn.

  He’d held his arms out to keep her away from him and said in a harsh voice, “You’re nae for me, lass.”

  Zarabeth had tried to argue with him, make him see reason. She’d been a clinging little fool, and he’d rebuffed her and taken himself out of the house as quickly as possible.

  Zarabeth had returned to her chamber, stifling her tears by being furious with Egan. She’d tossed the crystal into the fire, erasing her silly spell. She should have remembered that her magic never worked on Egan. She vowed that when next she saw him, she’d be cold and haughty and pretend she did not care.

  Except that she didn’t see him. Egan departed the house in the night and never came back. From that day to the moment she’d woken at the inn with him, Zarabeth had neither seen or heard from Egan MacDonald.

  Zarabeth looked up at him now, her gaze going to his mouth. A few lines creased the corners around it, but his lips were still strong, still enticing …

  She wanted to kiss him again.

  Zarabeth took a quick step back, breaking his hold, as the longing for him swamped her. Drat it all, what was the matter with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson?

  “Perhaps we should go back inside,” she said hastily.

  Egan’s frown increased. “Not yet. I want ye to tell me everything that happened with your marriage, Zarabeth. What your husband did t’ make ye like this.”

  Zarabeth blinked at him. “Make me like what?” Vulnerable? Afraid?

  “Brittle. Simpering.”

  Her bewilderment turned to a glare. “I do not simper.”

  Egan’s entrancing mouth curved. “That’s better.”

  “I don’t wish to speak of my husband. Not now, Egan. It’s too fresh, too awful, too close to me.”

  Zarabeth knew that if she did begin to pour out her troubles, she’d fling herself at him, likely weeping and begging for him to make it all better. She’d be the clinging fool he’d run away from all those years ago.

  “Damien told me you are divorcing your husband.” Egan said.

  Zarabeth swallowed and forced an answer. “Yes, Damien is taking care of it for me. It is quite handy to be cousin to the ruler of the nation.”

  Egan’s gaze sharpened, and Zarabeth realized she was doing it again—making light conversation about serious things.

  “I know the laws of Nvengaria,” Egan said. “A divorce does not ruin ye there, but I suggest we don’t mention it to m’sister.”

  Zarabeth gave him a lofty look. “I can keep a secret.”

  “Huh. That’s obvious.”

  Again, he puzzled her. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  Egan leaned closer, his large body curving over hers. Zarabeth knew she should back away, yet at the same time she wanted to stay in the shadow of his body and enjoy the heat.

  “Ye have so much dancing behind your eyes,” Egan growled. “One day I will discover all that ye are.”

  She raised her brows, forcing herself to sound offhand. “Oh, you will, will you?”

  He cupped her shoulders again, his touch making her want to crumble. “I will, lass. I promise ye.”

  Was he doing this on purpose? Driving her mad in retaliation for her once being young and foolish? Or did it simply amuse him to torment her?

  At least marriage to Sebastian had given her fortitude. Zarabeth had become hardened, and did not fear much of anything anymore. She’d certainly not back down from a challenge from a handsome Highlander.

  She lifted her chin. “Very well then, that’s settled. One day you will learn all my secrets. But not tonight. Let us rejoin the party instead. I’d like you to show me a true Highland dance. And if you believe I ought to be frail and too exhausted to hold up my head, I will sit on a chair and watch you.”

  She began to turn away, tired in truth, but she’d not let herself quaver.

  Egan grasped her arm, fingers strong, pulling her back to put his lips to her ear. “Oh, this is far from settled, love.”

  His eyes were dark as she looked at him, reminding her precisely how satin-smooth his lips were, how comforting his arms.

  She also remembered that for all his laughing charm and good nature, Egan MacDonald was a dangerous man.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

  “Ye will find out, lass.”

  That sounded ominous in the extreme. When Zarabeth didn’t answer, Egan took her hand and pulled it through the crook of his arm.

  She wore gloves and he a coat, but the rock-hard muscle under the cashmere shot fire to her heart. Dear heavens, it was going to be difficult living under the same roof with him whe
n she wanted to melt every time he touched her.

  Egan seemed oblivious to the turmoil raging inside her as he more or less dragged her back to the Great Hall.

  * * *

  Cajoling Egan to dance had been a grave mistake.

  Adam returned to sit beside her as Egan left her and moved to the center of the room. Zarabeth found it difficult to catch her breath after her sparring with Egan and made the excuse to Adam, when he asked if she was all right, that the wind had been a bit too brisk.

  “He should not have taken you out there,” Adam said severely, brows drawing over his gray eyes. “You were sent here for your protection, not to catch your death of cold.”

  Cold was not what had Zarabeth gasping, and she knew it. It was Egan, blast the man.

  The crowd on the floor parted as the fiddler struck up a tune, and Egan became the center of attention. She heard cries of “Make way for the laird,” and “Aye, show them how it’s done, cousin.” The guests drew around him, and Zarabeth rose so she could see.

  Two sabers had been laid on the floor, crossed at right angles, and as the music began, Egan began to dance carefully between them. Hands on hips, he started a slow, almost understated jig, his upper body ramrod straight and still. When the musicians sped up Egan danced faster, his eyes trained on the swords at his feet. He lifted one hand overhead for balance, the other remaining on his waist.

  He kept perfect time with the music, his hips swaying against the folds of the kilt, an athletic man moving with grace. His kilt flipped this way and that, a wave of blue and green plaid, showing a glimpse of thigh, a curve of leg, a tantalizing taste of the man beneath.

  More than one woman’s gaze riveted to Egan. Zarabeth heard some of the ladies’ thoughts, speculation that a man who danced like that would be as powerful in bed. Zarabeth couldn’t help wondering the same thing.

  The crowd clapped along with the drums as Egan danced faster and faster, and Zarabeth found herself clapping as well, her palms tingling. The music caught her and shut out everything but it and the man dancing swiftly and skillfully in the middle of the circle.

  At last Egan threw up both hands, landed on his feet outside the crossed swords and roared, “Enough!”

  The party burst into wild applause, and the musicians wound up with a flourish.

  “All hail our laird MacDonald!” someone shouted, and whisky glasses shot high. Some of the younger lads clamored for Egan to teach them the sword dance. Egan glanced over, saw Zarabeth watching him, and smiled.

  The smile nearly knocked her off her feet, even as it burned her all over. But the smile also held a knowing and a large dose of self-confidence that made her quiver.

  She would have to go very, very carefully.

  * * *

  In the morning, one of the castle’s smiling red-haired maids helped Zarabeth dress in another plaid gown and told her that breakfast would be found in the Great Hall. Zarabeth had learned from Gemma that most of the maids came from one family, the Grahams, who had produced seven daughters and three sons, all of whom worked for Egan. She remembered Jamie mentioning a Nanny Graham, who presumably had been part of the same family.

  Zarabeth’s Nvengarian footmen waited outside her bedroom door, having stationed themselves on either side like sentries. They were fine specimens of Nvengarian youth, Ivan a little taller than his brother Constanz, both black-haired and blue-eyed, with innocent but eager enthusiasm, on their first journey out of Nvengaria. They’d been Sebastian’s servants but had transferred their loyalty to Zarabeth—declaring their undying devotion to her—and had helped her escape Sebastian’s house. She’d be forever grateful to them for that.

  “Good morning,” Zarabeth greeted them.

  Ivan and Constanz thumped fists to chests and bowed to her as protocol dictated, then they fell into step behind her as she started downstairs.

  The dark, polished wooden stairs wound their way around the nearly square middle of the castle, galleries on each floor encircling empty space below. Doors and small hallways led off the gallery, the castle obviously having been added to over the centuries. The stairs were old, creaking, and precarious. Zarabeth clutched the railing, though her footmen ran lightly down the steps with the confidence of the young.

  The Great Hall had been put to rights since last night’s feast, and now one immense table, covered with platters of food, flowed down the center. Only two people were partaking of breakfast at the moment—Jamie MacDonald and Egan himself.

  Egan and Jamie sprang to their feet when Zarabeth entered, Jamie wiping his mouth from the enormous forkful of ham he’d just shoved past his lips. Ivan rushed to hold a chair for Zarabeth, but Egan beat him to it, drawing out the high-backed, carved chair next to his own.

  Jamie called a greeting as she sat down. “Ye look bonny this morning, Zarabeth. The night did you well.”

  Zarabeth nodded at him gratefully. “Yes, I was very comfortable, thank you, Jamie.”

  She slid into her seat while Egan gazed at her with watchful eyes. Really, was the man going to be suspicious of everything she said?

  Egan pushed Zarabeth’s chair to the table with such a strong hand that the arms of it banged the table’s edge, then he dropped back into his own seat.

  There seemed to be great deal of food—sausages, boiled eggs, ham, and some flat cakes she didn’t recognize. Zarabeth peered at it all, pleasantly hungry for the first time in months. She’d had to be so careful of what she ate at home, because her husband would sometimes drug her food.

  “Will there be porridge?” she asked Jamie. “Egan talked of it all the time he stayed in Nvengaria. I have so looked forward to trying it.”

  Jamie snorted in amazement. “Ye want porridge, do ye? Are ye mad? Williams,” he bellowed as the majordomo entered with another plateful of sausages. “Has your wife fixed no porridge this morning? Tell her to send up a bowl for our guest.”

  Williams looked surprised. “Porridge? Them’s good bannocks and fresh eggs, young master. Surprised the hens are laying, what with the mad crowd we’ve had here.”

  Zarabeth flushed and turned her polite smile to him. “This will be excellent, Williams. Please thank your wife for me. Perhaps I will try porridge later.”

  Looking puzzled, Williams trudged away.

  Jamie was laughing as he helped himself to the pile of flat oatcakes called bannocks. “There’s your answer, Zarabeth,” he said.

  “Scottish servants like to speak their minds,” Egan rumbled to Zarabeth, watching her. “Mebbe not what you are used to?”

  Zarabeth looked at him in frank astonishment while both her footmen tried to fill her plate at once. “Nvengarian servants can be the most forthright in the world, as you well know, Egan MacDonald.”

  Egan’s lips twitched, as though he were pleased with her answer. “Aye, I do know it.”

  Then why on earth had he asked?

  Frustrated, Zarabeth attacked the breakfast Ivan and Constanz had finished piling on her plate, but slowed as she found the food delicious. She said so, earning a shrug from Jamie, who declared it was as usual.

  “’Tis a lovely morning,” Egan said abruptly.

  Jamie looked up at the high windows, which showed dark gray skies, and raised his brows. “’Tis raining, Uncle.”

  “All the better. Good fishing to be had in a light rain.” Egan bent his gaze on Zarabeth. “Are ye up to it, lass? A little fishing in one of the best streams in Scotland? ’Twill be a bit muddy, of course. Not an activity for the delicate.”

  Aha. Delicate indeed.

  Zarabeth met his gaze steadily. “But of course. I would find it interesting to try fishing in your famous Scottish stream.”

  Jamie peered up at the wet windows, his forehead wrinkling. “You’re both mad.”

  “You’ll come with us,” Egan told him. “Ye need to better learn the lands and the wilds if you’re to be laird.”

  Jamie’s look turned mulish, and he rammed his fork into the lumps of potatoes on his plate
. “I’ve told ye, Uncle. I don’t want to be laird.”

  Any humor in Egan’s voice deserted him. “You are my heir,” he said sternly. “You’ll be laird, and that’s that.”

  “I won’t have to be if you hurry up and marry and have sons.”

  Egan’s frown deepened. “’Tis nae likely, lad, even with you scheming to find me a bride. Ye’ll be laird, and that’s an end to it.”

  Jamie scowled down at his plate, but Egan’s statement sparked Zarabeth’s interest. She turned to Jamie. “Find him bride?”

  Jamie looked up again, his doldrums fleeing. “Aye, Aunt Mary and me are workin’ to get Uncle Egan married off. We have a criteria and everything.”

  “Criteria?” Zarabeth repeated in curiosity. “Do tell.”

  “Shut it, Jamie,” Egan growled.

  “No, no,” Zarabeth said. “I want to hear this. It sounds like a fine idea.”

  It didn’t, in truth. The image of Egan standing in the small stone kirk as Angus had done yesterday, plighting his troth to a happy, pink-cheeked bride, made her sick at heart. But she kept an interested look trained on Jamie.

  Jamie set down his fork and touched each finger in turn as he spoke. “She must be Scottish, well bred, pretty, of tolerable personality, and either practice magic herself or descend from someone magical. Oh, and she must be rich. Bloody rich. We need money to fix up this wreck.” He glanced disparagingly at the Great Hall.

  “Why must she be magical?” Zarabeth asked.

  “Because of the curse, of course,” Jamie said promptly. “The laird must marry a magical lady without shame, and then they will say the spell that breaks the sword and the curse.”

  “Jamie,” Egan rumbled in a warning tone.

  “That’s why Aunt Mary went to Edinburgh,” Jamie went on. “To bring back eligible misses to meet him.”

  Egan’s rumble increased. “The devil she did. I’m to be protecting Zarabeth, not letting the place be overrun by debutantes.”

  “There’s nothin’ to worry about, Uncle. They’ll stay at Ross Hall. No sense in bringin’ the lass here until after she weds ye, or she might run away when she sees the ruin of the place.”