“I’m a Highland chief. Iamimposing.”
She grinned, realizing he was half teasing her. Then a shadow crossed his face. “There has been precious little reason for joy of late.” He looked around the hall meaningfully. She didn’t need to look to know what he was thinking. The lack of ornamentation, the threadbare clothing of his clansmen, the sorry state of the castle. But she also saw the happy faces and inherent pride of the people around her. And of their leader. “The floods and the feud with your brother have taken their toll,” he finished.
“Because Hector has captured your castle?”
She saw him tense, almost imperceptible, but she’d been watching him closely. “Yes.”
But she sensed there was something else. The feud with Hector was about more than just his lands and castle.
His finger slid over the silver-encrusted goblet. The silver plates and cups were the only visible signs of wealth in the otherwise sparse keep—she couldn’t help thinking a few hangings and flowers would do much to lighten up the place. The soft motion of his finger entranced her for a moment. His hands were like the rest of him: big, rough, and strong. Scarred by battle, they were a warrior’s hands. A man’s hands. Lord Murray’s hands had been pale white and as soft as hers.
She swallowed, remembering the gentle touch of those rough, callused fingers on her breast. She’d been shocked when he’d touched her through the drying cloth, but also undeniably aroused. Her body had softened with a wave of shimmering heat and an indescribable heaviness that had made her legs weak.
The way he’d been looking at her…still looked at her. As if he could see beneath her clothes. There was an intimacy between them that had been created in that room tonight. He’d wanted her and hadn’t bothered to hide it. The only question was whether he would do something about it.
She didn’t want to think about her own reaction if he did. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him, but she would not be seduced by her jailer, no matter how handsome—or how tender his kiss. “How did the feud with Hector begin?” she asked.
“You know so little of your brother?”
She felt her cheeks go hot and fought the instinctive defensiveness roused by his question. She’d never wanted to become involved in the endless bickering and shifting alliances of the Highlands, but he had a way of making her feel ashamed for having ignored a part of her heritage for so long.
“We were never close. He’s over twenty years older than I.” She paused thoughtfully. “My mother didn’t talk about him much. I think she blamed him for something, though they reconciled at the end.” Before she died. Flora looked down at her plate so that he would not see the emotion in her eyes. When the wave of longing passed, she looked back up to find him still staring at her. So he wouldn’t think her disloyal, she added, “But whenever our paths have crossed, Hector has always been kind to me.”
He looked as though he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Why did he take your castle? Why do you hate each other so much?”
“There has been bad blood between the clans for years. I was not yet ten when my father died. Hector saw my father’s death as an opportunity to try to take the lands that they have coveted for some time. He chose the day of his burial for an attack. What he didn’t count on was my uncle defeating him. Soundly, I might add.” And bloodily, she realized. “Even though we were greatly outnumbered and admittedly ill prepared. The people blamed the curse for your brother’s loss,” he finished.
“But that doesn’t make any sense. Macleans fought on both sides. How do they account for the fact that it was Macleans who won the battle?”
He shook his head. “The invocation of the curse isn’t rational. You’ll find that it is a convenient scapegoat whenever something goes wrong. Like the unusual years of heavy flooding we’ve had on Coll.”
She gave him a long, steady look. “You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you.”
Her observation had surprised him. He appeared almost uncomfortable. “I never expected being chief to be easy. It is my birthright and my duty.” And an integral part of his identity, she realized. “I will do anything to protect and preserve it.”
It sounded like a warning, but she let it go, returning to the feud. “And so after his defeat at the hands of your uncle, I assume Hector sought revenge.”
Lachlan nodded. “My uncle was murdered seven years later.”
“And you blame Hector?”
His jaw clenched. “I do, though I cannot prove it. But the men who were responsible for the deed were punished.”
Flora didn’t need to ask what he meant. They’d been killed. By his hand. He was watching her as if he expected her to challenge him for brutality, but she didn’t. Nor would she. Justice was justice. And in the Highlands, it was meted out swiftly and succinctly.
“And so he took your castle? But wouldn’t that be admitting complicity in the death of your uncle?”
“Hector doesn’t need a reason for treachery. But justice for my uncle’s murders took place many years ago. No, he’s raided my lands and stolen my castle to try to force me to his bidding. Something that will never happen.”
He said it with such loathing and steely determination that it took her aback, giving her a glimpse of the ruthless Highlander her mother had warned her about. Gilly’s admonition about his single-minded resolve also came back to her.
Flora felt torn. Her loyalty belonged to her brother, not to this man who’d kidnapped her. But she couldn’t ignore what she’d learned of Lachlan Maclean. He seemed fair. Except, apparently, when it came to her brother.
“Why?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t join his feud against the MacDonalds. He expected me to bow to him as chief. I refused.”
