Page 12 of Highlander’s Claim

There were warriors drinking, talking, having a rest after the journey. As usual, Colum sat alone. Seoras sat with his heavily pregnant wife, Mhairi. Laoghaire sat next to her drinking wine, her back straight, throwing odd glances at the red-haired vixen.

Between the embroideries of the MacDonald crest, shields with MacDonald colors hung in neat rows. The shields were round with a single, square sail in the middle—once again, the Viking heritage his Nordic ancestors had left behind.

The great hall was full of quiet murmuring, warriors talking with one another and laughing as they ate.

Aulay noticed how they all looked at the strange woman. At the bare flesh exposed to the whole world. At her hair, long and bright and shining, a brilliant contrast against the unnatural green of her dress. Well, he supposed, it wasn’t that unnatural. It was the color of the first newborn leaves in spring, when they are growing out of their tight buds and can’t wait to feel the sun on their tender surfaces.

That, too, was how Aulay often felt. His soul was curled tight, hidden deep in the cold, waiting.

He took a long breath. He liked the smell that always seemed to live inside his great hall: woodsmoke from the braziers, stone, and leather. There were also rich embroideries he had acquired a dozen years ago in a monastery in the south of France, where he’d personally gone to trade. They depicted a large castle, bigger than Stirling, peasants working the fields under its massive walls, and a lady being courted by a knight. This embroidery had been his gift to Leitis, the symbol of his love, how he’d courted his wife. Even though their marriage had been arranged, he didn’t touch her for months—not until he’d won her heart and she’d given herself to him willingly.

She had been the great love of his life. The woman he’d have happily died for.

He’d never even looked at any woman since Leitis.

Until this one.

And he didn’t know her name or where she came from.

She picked up the carving knife and moved the salmon along the trencher, then leaned down and sniffed it. A wee fox indeed. Aulay hid a smile.

She was very pretty, with her small, straight stature, the curves under that thin, silky dress. What color were her eyes?

As though hearing his thoughts, she looked up at him. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes from here, even though she glared straight at him.

Surprising himself, he stood and walked down the steps of the platform. He headed to her; the whole way, her glare was like a hail of nails showering over him.

When he stood one step away, he realized her eyes were brown and warm, almost yellow like the color of a late-summer honey. What would it be like if they didn’t throw daggers but melted and looked at him with affection? As he walked around her, he craved to touch her again. He picked up a wavy piece of fabric right under her clavicle. It was warm from her body and felt like sheer silk, so soft and light, he thought it might be made of a faerie’s wings.

“Why are ye dressed like this, lass?” he asked.

“Go to hell,” she replied. “You realize how offensive you sound? Why wouldn’t I be dressed like this?”

He chuckled and let go of the fabric. She smelled of something delicious and foreign, he noticed. Flowery and fresh. Like apples. And lemons, the fruit he’d once tried back in the kingdom of Galicia.

“For one,” he said, “the goat thought yer dress was its meal.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stupid goat.”

“Nae fabric that I ken is so soft and light and so rich in color my eyes hurt.”

“Oh yeah? Well, your clothes make me want to take them off and—”

Her whole face lit up in the color of flame. He stopped in front of her and couldn’t stop an amused grin. “And what?”

“And burn them.”

He cocked his head and looked at her feet. “I have never seen such ridiculous shoes. Three straps and a platform. Yer toes and feet are covered in mud and animal dung.”

She swallowed and looked at her feet. “Can’t argue there. I regret my choice of shoes more than you know.”

He narrowed his eyes at her hair. There were two colors. One, this vibrant and rich fox red. The other, just a thin line at the roots, a paler, honey-red with a few silvery lines. How could one achieve such a vibrant color? He knew some women bleached their hair in the sun or with a mixture of wood ash and vinegar. Blondes were the standard of beauty and perfection. But he’d never heard of anyone trying to be red-haired.

There was a delicate bracelet on her wrist, a remarkable craftsmanship of interwoven leaves. And she wore a thin ring on her right index finger.

He walked to stand by her side and crossed his arms over his chest. She was short and she was sitting, and he had an odd image of her kneeling before him, fisting his hard erection. God’s blood, he hadn’t had a lustful thought about a woman in seven years.

“Let’s start with yer name,” he said. “What do they call ye?”