Page 7 of Deception of a Highlander

His ready trust had once been abused, and he paid for it still on a daily basis. He would not repeat that mistake again.

“I canna take ye to Scotland, Mariel.” He stood to leave, hoping she would not press her hand.

Hoping, but not expecting.

She rose quickly from her chair. Too quickly. Her look of nonchalance could not hide her anxiety. “Oh?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Did I not hear you correctly when you agreed to play?”

“Nay, I did agree to play chess with ye.” Though it had just begun, he knew the conversation would not go well for him.

“And did you not hear me when I told you the wager?”

“Aye, I heard the wager.” He’d heard but had not expected to have to honor it.

She motioned to the board. “Do you think I have in some way cheated?”

He gritted his teeth. “Nay, I dinna think ye cheated.”

“Then the men of court were correct.” She turned away from him. “Highlanders are not honorable men.” Her eyes met his as she glanced back over her shoulder. “I confess I thought more of you.”

Pride squeezed against reason and shoved common sense from his thoughts. He caught her hand and pulled her to face him once more. “The English are the ones who are no’ honorable.”

One perfectly groomed eyebrow lifted at his words. “I’ve never had an Englishman lie to me the way you just did.”

“It isna lack of honor that keeps me from agreeing to this, but fear for yer safety. I dinna think ye understand how difficult life on Skye can be.” He eyed her soft, milk-white hands and continued, “Ye would need to work hard to earn yer place.”

Mariel’s gaze wandered to the chessboard. “Perhaps you underestimate me, Kieran.”

He regarded her with silence. She was full of surprises, he would give her that.

Kieran studied her upturned face and, for the briefest of moments, allowed himself to entertain the idea of accepting her as his mistress. Having her in his bed would make him the envy of the Highlands. He kept his gaze from trailing down to her bodice, but he knew what lay there. The very idea of having her be his, of being able to pull her into his arms, of being able to kiss her, touch her—it was too damn tempting.

Kieran folded his hand around his defeated king and let the sharp edges of the chess piece bite into his palm as he tried to clear the images fogging his mind. Wanting her was a waste of energy.

She could never be his.

He would never allow her to buy his protection with her body. Too recently he had seen what the abuse of man could do. And it made his body burn with rage.

He gave her an appraising look. “If ye are able to work for yer keep in Scotland, then why did ye offer to become my mistress?”

“Working for my keep in London is not possible. There are no options for a woman, save marriage.” Mariel rose on her tiptoes and peered over the elaborate hairstyles of several women to where King James stood with his bushy beard and velvet frippery.

“King James and Queen Anne were married by proxy,” she said. “However, when our queen tried to depart for Scotland, she encountered storms and was unable to travel. King James was beside himself with misery and wrote sonnets in her honor. Unable to take her absence any longer, he gathered his men and set sail for Oslo, where he plucked her from its barren shore and bore her safely to Scottish soil.” Mariel gave a little sigh. “Is that not the most romantic story you’ve ever heard?”

Kieran didn’t bother commenting on her diatribe. What a man’s passionate notion toward his wife had to do with Mariel’s offer to be his mistress made no sense. Besides, the king’s chivalrous effort seemed like a waste of men, time, and funds, but some fools considered themselves romantic. That James was such a fool came as little surprise.

“There is a woman by the door with blonde hair in a pink gown,” Mariel continued without turning her head. “Did you notice her when we came in?”

He glanced toward the door and immediately spotted the woman. The frivolous gown framed a curvy figure and drew attention to her heavy bosom, while the arrogant tilt of her chin indicated how very important she thought herself.

He had not noticed her when he entered, but then, what man would see the haughty blonde when he had Mariel on his arm?

Kieran felt her eyes on him, and he realized she was waiting for an answer. “I dinna see her when we came in,” he confessed.

“Then you are the only man who did not.” With a wry smile, she leaned closer to him. Her light scent tickled his senses and coaxed the arousal he fought to keep at bay. She spoke softly, her words meant only for his ears. “Do you see how King James looks at her?”

He turned and found the king staring at the blonde as though she were spit-roasted game and he, a starving man.

“That’s his mistress, Lady Glamis,” Mariel explained. “His wife, for whom he’d made such a production of loving, is in another palace while Lady Glamis travels with him.” She tilted her head to the side, musing. “Not so very romantic, is it?”