Chapter Thirteen #4
Wilkie had a wild look, whether from his day of sparring and hunting, or from something else entirely, it was difficult to tell.
His gaze immediately found me in the noisy bustle of the crowded space.
His eyes wandered my face, my dress—and all it revealed—and my hair.
His expression darkened. Fury and fire reflected in his direct stare and brought a rush of heat to my skin.
Was he angry? I wondered briefly if Ailie had misunderstood her instructions; maybe Wilkie had wanted me to remain in his chambers and wait for him.
I wouldn’t have minded, but in fact, now that I was here, I didn’t feel quite as out of place as I thought I might.
Christie was at my side, content it seemed, to be my companion and guardian.
I’d also had half a goblet of the ale she’d offered me, which infused me with a warm ease, and the feeling that I could almost handle the evening.
And it further heightened the heat Wilkie’s gaze inspired.
My dress was fitted and soft. And I wore nothing underneath.
He couldn’t have known this, but his expression burned me in intimate places, exciting the light swell that ached for his touch.
He walked toward me, and my stomach felt fluttery as he drew closer. There was a definite volatility to his expression; I didn’t understand what it meant or what caused it, but it stirred me.
Before Wilkie reached me, his attention was diverted by Magnus Munro, who greeted him and slapped him on the back as if they were old friends.
Wilkie was popular, as his sisters had pointed out.
This was clear by the unending cluster that sought him out.
I watched him as he spoke and laughed with his noble friends and acquaintances.
It seemed he was attempting to make his way in my direction, but there were more people who wanted to greet him. Very occasionally, I caught his eye.
Several of the Morrison women, including Maisie, were next in line.
Maisie adjusted her dress scandalously low, in an obvious bid to entice him.
She was clearly determined to get his attention and unconcerned about the possibility of tarnishing her reputation to do it.
She was fairly spilling out of her gown with her eagerness.
Stella, I noticed, was nowhere in sight, a detail I was momentarily grateful for.
The Morrison women surrounded Wilkie, blocking any potential attempts of his to evade them.
They laughed and fawned over him, lightly touching him with their fingers at every opportunity.
Maisie’s attentions, in particular, were possessive in nature.
She slung her arm through the crook of his, as though he were her escort.
He, after a time, subtly removed it as his drink was refilled.
Wilkie watched me for a moment from this short distance, his expression inscrutable.
And the sight of him there, surrounded by his adoring heiresses, almost upset my control.
What could I do? I could hardly storm over to him and remove their hands from his arms and push them away.
I could huff away to his chambers, but I didn’t want to voluntarily remove myself from his presence; it seemed wasteful.
He noticed my ire, and he met it with his own.
His eyes were predatory, as though he was struggling to maintain his self-control.
But his loose-limbed stance appeared, by contrast, relaxed.
I could not read his behavior, and this upset me even more.
I wished I could touch him, to feel his indifference, if that’s what this was.
I wasn’t adept yet at reading him from afar, but his touch gave everything away.
Was the company of his own peers enough to oust me from his favor?
Well, I could be aloof as well, I thought indignantly.
My emotions were raging within me, yet my outermost layer felt calm. After all, I’d already made up my mind: I wanted all of him, with no quarter given.
He was still being circled by the women, and I wondered what he was thinking. I didn’t care anymore if I was seen and stared at or whispered about. I didn’t care if the Morrison women blocked my way or even if Wilkie was savoring their explicit attentions. I would go to him.
But I stopped before I began. Maisie Morrison had cupped her hand to Wilkie’s jaw and turned his face to hers.
She was saying something to him, which he leaned closer to hear.
And as he did, she caught my eye in a challenging glare, and her hand was reaching farther to caress his face lightly and to touch his hair.
That glance provided unwanted information. Maisie Morrison not only wanted Wilkie, she thought she already had him. It was a glare of ownership, as one might deliver to a thief.
My soul grew cold, and I wondered if Wilkie’s dismissal of the Morrison alliance, through his marriage to one of them, had been overturned. I wondered if Laird Mackenzie had agreed to Laird Morrison’s proposal at the instigation of his third daughter, who still held me in her watchful glare.
Before I could thaw or react, two large men approached Christie and me, blocking out the sight of Maisie and Wilkie, as though to provide temporary distraction from my anxiety.
Their red-cast hair identified them immediately as Munros.
And I was glad of the diversion they provided. It gave me a minute to steady myself.
“Are you Magnus’s brother?” asked Christie of the one who stood next to me, and quite closely.
“Aye, Christie. We met once when you were still quite young. I’m Angus. Third in line.” He smirked, as though the subject of his inheritance was highly entertaining to him. “This is Tosh Munro, my cousin.”
Angus Munro had memorable hair: red on the bottom layers giving way to strawberry blond on the top; it gave him a sunny quality that seemed to match his personality. His presence was energetic and bright, throwing a small amount of warmth into my stunned silence.
“And who might you be?” he said, lifting my hand to kiss the back of my knuckles. Not once, but several times.
“This is Roses,” Christie offered before I could speak.
“Why haven’t I seen Roses before?” asked Angus. “Are you new to the Mackenzie clan?”
Christie deftly changed the subject. As far away as the Macduff clan was, these men were warriors who traveled regularly between clan territories, to meet and discuss politics on a regular basis.
It was risky to spin lies. I felt, and Christie appeared to feel the same way, that it was a topic better avoided if possible. “Not so new. More ale?”
She poured the drinks.
I felt adrift and loose. And utterly alone, despite the crowd.
Christie seemed to be enjoying the conversation of Angus and Tosh. Tosh in particular, whose laughter she seemed to find infectious. And Angus, feeling shut out of their burgeoning connection, maybe, homed his focus in on me.
I really might have had too much ale, I feared. My vision seemed slightly off-kilter. I enjoyed the light hues of Angus’s hair, I did admit to him. They caught the candlelight. I tried to excuse myself, to make my way toward Wilkie, to ask him and forgive him, but Angus blocked my way.
The room was swirled at the edges, darker now, full of people, and the noise of it was almost comfortingly raucous, as though the gathering had found its harmony, even if I had not. Music played. People were well immersed now in their evening.
“You didn’t tell me where you’re from,” Angus persisted, leaning in closer.
So close, in fact, that a drop from his drink spilled from his goblet, wetting the pillowy curves of my exposed upper breasts.
Angus, noticing this, touched his finger very gently to the droplet of warm liquid, tracing a line.
The touch unsettled me greatly. I flinched back from him, but I was already pressed up against the wall.
Perhaps noticing my unease, he withdrew his lingering touch.
Then, watching my eyes, he licked his finger.
Angus’s hand was grabbed by a larger hand, surprising him.
A looming dark figure was at my side. I recognized his scent and the energy of him before I even saw who he was; it infused me with comfort and lit me from within. Wilkie dropped Angus’s hand, which Angus then fondled with his other hand, as though it was paining him.
Wilkie looped his muscular arm around me protectively, drawing me close to his body.
“Angus,” Wilkie said. “I trust you’re enjoying yourself.
You must help yourself to more food and drink at the table.
” His words had a suggestive thrust to them, as though behind the kind invitation there was an unyielding order.
“Wilkie,” Angus greeted him. His tone was tinged with his lingering surprise, respect, a hint of disappointment at the interruption. He took his leave, fully registering Wilkie’s unspoken dismissal.
Truly, I had never felt so relieved and elated.
I couldn’t find my earlier anger or jealousy.
My warrior was here with me. And my inhibitions, as a result of the cup of ale I had imbibed, were fairly nonexistent.
I was glad for his closeness now for that reason as much as any other; I wasn’t sure of what I might do.
Wilkie looked big and half-crazed in the dim lighting of the now-rowdy crowd. His eyes were not on me but on Angus for a time, and they were dark and smoldering, dangerous in intent. He held me tightly against him, perhaps forgetting himself in the very-public circumstance.
And I, too, in my loosened state forgot all restraints. My body was pushed up roughly against him, my breasts barely contained in the soft pink fabric of my dress. His thigh was pressed up against my own, delivering heat. And his mouth, parted for his heavy breath, was only inches from mine.
I only just stopped myself from pressing my mouth to his, instead standing on my tiptoes to whisper into his ear. “I missed you, warrior.”