The Earl of Argyll. Lachlan masked his reaction, understanding too well why she would fear her cousin’s interference. Her fear was warranted. Although Rory controlled her marriage, he—like Lachlan—had entered into a bond of manrent with Argyll. That alone gave Argyll plenty of influence in the decision.
“Your cousin has a habit of interfering where he does not belong.”
“And I’ve seen too often the misery that type of interference can bring. When I marry,ifI marry, it will be my decision and no one else’s. Not my brothers’, not my cousin’s, but mine.”
She spoke with such passion, he knew that this was the crux of understanding her. Her elopement was not simply the actions of a spoiled, headstrong girl, as he’d first thought. There was a far deeper reason. A real fear behind her actions. It wasn’t marriage itself she feared, but being forced into it.
He tested his theory. “But it isn’t a woman’s right to make such decisions. Like it or not, the choice of your husband doesn’t belong to you.”
She looked at him as if he’d struck her. The irony, of course, was that she had more power than she realized. But perhaps it was better for his purposes if she remained unsure.
“So it’s a woman’s lot to be bartered to the highest bidder?”
It was rather crude when put that way, but accurate nonetheless. “It is.”
“Well, it’s a lot I do not accept.” A glint of steel appeared in her eyes. “Headstrong” was putting it mildly. He would need to tread carefully, but time was a constant weapon.
He suspected the source of her discontent. He knew something of Janet Campbell. Like her daughter, Janet had been one of the most sought-after heiresses of her day. Married to four powerful Highland chiefs. Unhappily, it was said. “Your mother was wrong to put such ideas in your head.”
“You presume too much. You don’t know anything about my mother.” Her hand went to a large pendant she wore around her neck.
Suddenly, his entire body froze. He nearly ripped it out of her hand. “Where did you get that?” It wasn’t a pendant, as he’d first thought, but a brooch hanging from a chain with a large stone set in the center.
She paled and tried to slip it down the bodice of her gown. “It belonged to my mother.”
He reached out to stop her, taking the amulet in his hand. He couldn’t believe it. Excitement coursed through him as he examined the faded etchings of axes and thistle in silver that surrounded a large center stone of cairngorm—the yellowish brown stone of the Highlands. Axes and thistle were the emblems of the Macleans. He turned it over to read the inscription on the back:To my beloved husband, on the day of our marriage.
He couldn’t believe it.
The irony could have made him laugh. Marrying Flora MacLeod would be a boon in more ways than one. Their marriage would be a powerful symbol. An end to a curse. A curse that he didn’t believe in, but that didn’t matter, his people believed in it. They blamed the curse for the misfortune that had haunted their clan for the last eighty years.
Still holding the amulet, he looked deep into her eyes. “It’s you. You’re the Campbell lass.”
Flora cursed herself for her stupidity. She should have kept the amulet well hidden. But how could she have guessed that he would recognize it so easily?
He was a Maclean; of course he knew the legend. The chief who had chained poor Elizabeth Campbell to the rock had been his ancestor—his grandfather’s father’s father, if she wasn’t mistaken. But she wouldn’t have expected him to give it much credence. Not in this day and age.
But how could she have forgotten that putting an end to the curse was one of the reasons her mother had been forced to marry her first husband?
“You can’t believe in that old tale,” she said dismissively.
“No.”
Her relief was short-lived.
“Although many in these parts do,” he finished.
“It’s ridiculous. My mother’s marriage to Hector’s father should have put all those old superstitions to rest.”
“Instead it strengthened them.”
He was right. For a few years, with her mother’s marriage to Hector’s father, the Maclean of Duart, the bad luck that seemed to follow the Macleans had temporarily ended. Until his death, when the misfortune returned. The small lapse had only fueled the superstition.
What had she done? Had Coll reconsidered his intention not to marry her? She couldn’t let that happen. “It doesn’t matter. The amulet belongs to me, and I will never willingly bestow it.”On you,she left unsaid. Most believed that the curse would end when the amulet was bestowed willingly on a Maclean—something her mother had never done.
Something sparked in his eyes. He’d taken her words as a challenge. He leaned closer, invading the safe buffer of space between them, engulfing her senses. He was big and strong and thoroughly overwhelming. And he smelled amazing. Warm and spicy, with just a hint of myrtle and soap. Awareness surrounded her. She became achingly conscious of his mouth only inches from hers. Of fine stubble along his jaw. His lashes were so long and feather soft, a sharp contrast to the hard angles of his face.
He reached out, and she froze, thinking he meant to touch her, to kiss her. Instead, he untangled a strand of hair that had caught in her lashes and tucked it gently behind her ear. Her stomach clenched as she breathed in the scent of him. Of myrtle, soap, and man. The sensation of his fingers on her skin made her shiver.
