1307, Scotland, Isle of Skye

Castle MacLeod

Dahlia MacLeod galloped her mare up the winding road, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face and her white-blonde hair, caught by the wind, streaming behind her as she rode. Glorying in the spring morning, as she neared the castle, she waved to the guard on duty and brought her little mare to a standstill, waiting while the portcullis was raised.

She walked her horse through the gate, crossing the cobbled courtyard to the drinking trough. There, after giving her horse a pat on her neck, she slid out of the saddle and handed her reins to the waiting groom.

Startled by the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice issuing from the nearby stables she swiveled, craning her neck to catch sight of whoever was speaking.

Then she realized the man was talking to his horse.

“Good lad.” She heard him say. “I thank ye fer the safe journey.”

She was staring, mouth slightly ajar, as the owner of the deep, whisky-voice strode out of the stables. He was tall and broad with a mane of fair hair that fell almost to his shoulders. As he passed, nodding to her as he went, she glimpsed hazel eyes, a straight nose, cheeks like blades and full, wide lips.

Watching him stride up the steps of the keep she was strangely flustered. Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she couldn’t help wishing she’d tidied her hair and had worn anything but her old, faded, blue-linen kirtle.

There was something familiar about the man. She could almost swear she’d met him somewhere. Yet she knew that was impossible, she’d never seen him before. His was not a face she’d readily forget.

Determined to put the man out of her mind, she was halfway up the stairs to her bedchamber when she was intercepted by one of the chambermaids.

Puffing slightly, the lass handed her a folded parchment. “Forgive me, melady. I’ve brought ye a message from yer brother, Laird Haldor.”

“Thank ye.” The maid hurried off and Dahlia shoved the note into her pocked to read in the privacy of her room.

It was not until she’d bathed and a donned a freshly laundered blouse and kirtle, brushed her hair and braided it, that she remembered her brother’s message.

Unfolding the crumpled parchment, she read his brief note. He was entertaining his Clan Council members and a special guest for a dinner to which no ladies were invited. He asked her to do him the honor of entertaining them with music, playing her clàrsach for their pleasure.

She smiled to herself. On rare occasions, when there was important business at hand, Haldor requested she play her Scottish harp for his guests.

Was the stranger she’d glimpsed outside the stables the ‘special guest’ her brother was dining with tonight? If so, he was someone to be wooed with music and fine food. Mayhap she would find out who he was, after all.

Damn. There was that annoying little jolt to her heartbeat again.

By the evening she was in a lather of curiosity. She’d taken special care with her appearance, donning a favorite red silk kirtle tied with a gold cord, and brushed her hair so that it tumbled in silvery waves, almost to her waist. After adding a pair of hooped gold earbobs, she put on her red silk slippers and made her way to the great hall.

The place was bustling with kitchen-maids setting up for the meal, but her brother and his guests had not yet arrived. With the help of the manservant who’d carried her clarsach from the solar, she set it up on its little wooden stand.

She was playing a dreamy, soft tune, lost in its gentle, sliding rhythms, when the men finally appeared and took their seats.

Her stomach lurched. There he was, the man from the stables, as handsome as she recalled, seated at her brother’s right hand next to her other brothers, Ivar and Arne. Whoever he might be, this meant he was important.

And there again was that strange frisson of heat rippling through her at the sight of him.

And it kept happening, every time she looked up and caught his gaze resting on her she could scarcely breath.

As the evening wore on, she picked up fragments of the men’s conversation.

From what she could gather there was a great deal of talk about peace. Compensation. For what? Stolen cattle? King Robert’s name was mentioned several times.

A young maid brought her a platter containing cheese, buttered bannocks and a rosewater soda. Realizing she was both hungry and thirsty she was grateful for the brief break.

“Who is the man seated beside me braither Haldor?” she asked quietly. “I cannae make out his tartan from here”

The maid glanced over to the high table. “’Tis the Mackinnon. I’ve heard he’s the new laird.”

Dahlia froze. A Mackinnon! The Mackinnons were their sworn enemies. The long-standing feud between the two clans could never be settled and it had only been a matter of months since their last terrible confrontation. Haldor had slaughtered Laird James Mackinnon, the man who had kidnapped to force her into marriage and who was the murderer of her beloved brother, Thor.

The one man who escaped her brother’s sword was Bairre Mackinnon. After the skirmish, he had disappeared and it was rumored he’d taken refuge in France. With the death of his brother James, it was this hateful man, Bairre, who was the rightful laird.

So, who was the man seated beside Haldor?

She glanced over at him again, and he caught her eye, his mouth widening in a smile. Her heart skipped a beat. It was as if something sparkled in the air between them, capturing her attention, drawing her gaze irresistibly to him.

Arran Mackinnon was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation. His attention was constantly diverted to the graceful lass strumming her clàrsach on the other side of the hall. The music of the harp drifted in the air, punctuating what was being said with a gentle harmony that eased the gruff words being uttered by the MacLeods.

Not threats exactly, but dire warnings of what might befall any of the Mackinnon clansmen who continued the raiding that had been going on since James was laird. This was exactly what Arran was attempting to convince Haldor, his brothers, and the Mackinnon Clan Council, he would put an end to.

He was sincere in his wish for the clans to live peaceably in their adjoining lands. And it was the devil’s own job trying to convince the MacLeods that he was nothing like James and Bairre, with whom they’d been feuding for as long as he could remember.

Despite the overriding importance of this meeting, he found himself distracted. Whenever he looked up at Dahlia and their eyes met it was as if he was struck by a lightning bolt. She was a true beauty with her Viking-white hair, her bonny face, and the long graceful fingers strumming her harp.

He cast his mind back to their first meeting. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been masked and hidden from her gaze back then. Yet… there was something in the way she looked at him that made him think she was trying to bring their previous contact to mind.

The meal came to an end, with nothing decided, no promises made, but some of the ice broken between them. Haldor and the others were friendly enough, but he was no fool. Clan hospitality meant they would show him nothing but a warm welcome, no matter how much they might distrust him.

But it was a start. As he’d taken on the lairdship unofficially, even though it was only until Bairre Mackinnon either reappeared or was declared dead, and he was making every effort to settle the disputes that were keeping his clan from leading peaceful, prosperous lives. The foremost of those disputes was the feud with the MacLeods. After years of raiding across clan territories it was time to put a stop to the enmity and bring peace to both clans.

He looked up again, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the bonny lass strumming her clàrsach. He took in the delicate arch of her neck, the tendrils of shining hair on her cheeks, the rise of her creamy breasts at her neckline He met her glorious blue eyes, feeling the heat in his belly and a twitch in his groin as his wayward cock registered his enchantment.

She rose from her chair, smoothing out the rose-colored folds of her skirt, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. He caught his breath as she turned toward him and walked across the room to the table where he sat, the silken skirt swaying enticingly with her every step.

As she approached, Laird Haldor got to his feet. She curtseyed low before him and he clasped her hand in his.

“I am here tae bid ye good night, braither.”

The sound of her soft voice with its hint of huskiness almost brought Arran undone. At that moment he’d have given anything to take her hand and press it to his lips.

Haldor turned to him. “May I introduce me sister, the Lady Dahlia.” He proffered her hand to Arran. “This is Laird Arran MacKinnon, a distant cousin of James and Bairre. He’s taken the lairdship in Bairre’s absence.”

Standing, Arran bowed from the waist, never taking his gaze from Dahlia’s.

Grasping her hand, he gently pressed it to his lips. At once his senses were assailed by her delicate rose fragrance and the softness and warmth of her skin. Even though the breath caught in his throat, he managed a few halting words of greeting.

“I am pleased tae meet ye, Lady Dahlia.”

She smiled up at him.

“Have we nae met before this night, me laird?” She half-raised a delicate eyebrow in puzzlement.

Without hesitating, he rolled the lie off his tongue.

“I dinnae believe we have met, melady. Ye’re surely mistaken.”

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