Chapter Fifteen
THE FESTIVITIES ON THE second evening of the Morrisons’ visit were even more lively than those of the first. The music was louder, and the ale seemed to flow more easily.
On the first night, there had been a flush of reserve in the crowd, as friends and families got reacquainted or, in some cases, met for the first time.
But the reserve had now been well and truly laid to rest, as the Mackenzies and their guests ate, drank, discussed, argued and flirted.
Making matches and alliances was, in fact, the point of the gathering, and the young people, in particular, appeared suitably dedicated to the task.
Ailie, I noticed, had broken through her shy avoidance of Magnus Munro and was seated next to him, blushing from his attentions.
He really was a striking-looking man. Tall and red-haired, he had the air of a hard-edged romantic.
And Ailie, with all her cream-skinned, dark-eyed beauty, seemed to have entranced him.
I hoped, for her sake, the match would come to pass and make her happy.
Christie was again talking with Tosh and Angus Munro.
Angus made no move to speak to me this evening, and I could hardly blame him; Wilkie watched him with a hawk-eyed alertness.
Angus, it appeared, had instead decided to vie for the attentions of Christie.
It was clear that Tosh was somewhat miffed by his cousin’s intrusion, and I hoped Christie was treading lightly.
Her open, naive manner might make her more vulnerable than most, and I felt, again, a wave of protectiveness for her.
I also wondered if Angus or Tosh would make a good match for her.
If Ailie eventually married Magnus Munro, would Christie be required to marry a nobleman of a different clan?
Laird Mackenzie’s goal seemed to be to expand his family’s holdings as far afield as possible; maybe he would forbid his sisters from marrying brothers.
And so my thoughts treaded across the crowd as I watched the matchmaking in action, somewhat nervously. Would Wilkie choose to make his announcement tonight? And if he did, what would be the reaction?
Wilkie was fairly crawling out of his skin.
If he’d been wild-eyed last night, tonight was something else altogether.
He remained at my side, attempting, I thought, to keep his hands from touching me too obviously.
The rumor mill had had its say, and by now I was certain every soul in the hall knew of my confession: of who I was and what I was, as much as it could be known.
No one said anything outright, but I could tell by the look in their eyes.
They were wise to hold their tongues. Wilkie, I’d overheard, was not only renowned for his reckless nature but also his fighting skills; I’d heard it said that he was one of the best swordsmen in the Highlands and highly respected for it.
That, along with his unpredictability, kept the open remarks to a minimum.
I wasn’t sure if Wilkie sensed this change or knew of it; I wasn’t sure if he was aware that my secret was out. Maybe that’s what lit his blue eyes with a crazed animation that kept the Morrison women almost at bay.
But there was a change, too, in Maisie’s approach.
She knew now that she clearly outclassed me, that the reality of my situation gave her a very definite social advantage in our shared quest to keep Wilkie Mackenzie as our own.
And we weren’t alone. Aside from Stella, whose eyes remained cast down or gazing at some far-off point out the window, Maisie’s own sisters ogle-eyed him covetously, and her cousins, too, to be sure.
He kept me close to him, even holding my wrist on occasion.
Once he absentmindedly touched my hair. And between us, a fizzling current burned and held like a quiet agony.
To be so close to him and not touch him was torturous.
To feel his breath on my face and not be allowed to lean closer, to taste him and feel the heat of his skin, it made me ache and fluster and count the minutes.
Wilkie’s face registered the same passion, his blue eyes harsh in their intensity.
The revelations, the bliss and the absolute connectivity of the past twenty-four hours radiated between us and drew us to each other like an intangible magnetic force.
And at the same time, the uncertainty of our future together, the whispers in the room and the ever-present insistence of Maisie Morrison—all pink lips and fleshy cleavage—sparked into the space between us, which may as well have been the vastest ocean.
I needed air.
Or at least a drink of water. Abruptly, I left Wilkie’s side to wander across the room, finding a pitcher and a cup.
I drank one cup and filled it again. I carried it with me as I made my way back to Wilkie, wondering if it might be a better idea to depart instead to his chambers to wait for him there.
Before I could make the decision, I was intercepted by a man wearing a Munro tartan.
The other cousin, I suspected, who I’d not yet met.
“Tadgh Munro. You must be Roses.” He held up his hand to take mine for a light kiss, a gesture I was not used to but was learning.
I gave him my hand, and he touched his lips gently to the back of my knuckles, releasing me almost instantly, which I was fiercely glad of.
I had a feeling it wouldn’t do to challenge Wilkie’s control tonight; his unruliness was too close to the surface.
When I glanced once in his direction, he was distracted, predictably flocked by his admirers once again.
“Once you’re finished serving Wilkie, you’re more than welcome at the Munro keep,” he said. “I’ll escort you myself.”
At first I wasn’t sure of his meaning, but his brown eyes glimmered with wicked intent and something more.
“I—” I stuttered, “I must go.”
Tadgh’s finger traced a departing invitation along the skin of my lower arm as I hastily made my leave and left a blazing, humiliating impression.
And as I drew closer to Wilkie, he immediately sensed my distress. He brushed off the hands of the women impatiently and rushed to my side. “What has happened?” he asked, reading the stricken look on my face.
I attempted a smile, and I cupped his readied fist between my hands. “’Tis, nothing, warrior. I’m fine.”
In fact I wasn’t fine. My foolish outburst had revealed the terrible reality of who I was.
I was being laughed at and looked down upon.
I could feel it, I could see it. I wasn’t good enough for Wilkie, and it devastated me.
I was an embarrassment to my upstanding warrior, who must feel a deep humiliation of his own.
To be seen with me and to have to contend with the disdain of his peers: no wonder he looked tight-sprung and ready to burst into flames at a moment’s notice.
I felt deeply ashamed that I had caused him such disgrace.
And there was more to my sorrow, too. I knew the time was drawing nigh when I would reveal my mark to him.
The thought of Wilkie’s love shifting, possibly violently, to revulsion or anger was almost more than I could endure.
But it must be done, and sooner rather than later.
I hated myself for what I was and, even more so, for hiding my true identify from him.
I knew why I had done it, to experience the astounding beauty that Wilkie was able to unrelentingly provide, just once, just for a while.
Wilkie’s long fingers reached to frame my jaw. His expression, rather than outraged or at all shamed, was anguished. And his dark beauty pierced me anew. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, lass, don’t. I can’t bear it.”
And then, as if all the forces of the universe converged into one forward, gentle pull, it happened.
The crowd faded away, and all I could see or feel was his face and his magnetic draw.
His lips were slightly parted, so close to my own.
Those lips that had done unspeakable, transcendent things to my body.
I craved him with every fiber of my being.
And Wilkie, as though in response, touched his mouth to mine in a sweet, brief, very forbidden kiss.
The crowd murmured and buzzed. Someone whistled.
A lewd comment was offhandedly tossed. And Maisie Morrison was there, stepping in and claiming some kind of jurisdiction over what had just transpired.
She smiled sweetly, her hand lightly placed on Wilkie’s muscular forearm, but her words were hissed more than spoken. “Wilkie, you mustn’t.”
I don’t believe it was her words that set him off or even the clasp of her fingers on his arm. He reacted only when she placed her hand on my shoulder, as though she might push me away.
“Take your hand off Roses,” Wilkie said, and his voice was colored with steely hostility.
She did, slowly, and with an expression of mild hurt, as if she couldn’t understand his coldness.
It was then that Wilkie leaped up on a chair. He stood tall and surveyed the crowd with confidence, wholly assured and comfortable in his own skin. He spoke evenly, with his voice only slightly raised; he already had the room’s undivided attention.
“Honored guests, friends and fellow clansmen,” he said, “I have an announcement I’d like to make.”
I almost called out to him, to stop him. Wait. There’s something I need to show you first, warrior, I thought. Now.
“Wilkie.”