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Interrupting that dangerous train of thought, Ian asked, “So we’re just to sit about waiting, praying for a squall?”
“Aye,” the laird replied. He was hoping for a squall. A blizzard. Any winter calamity that would make the enemy flee. But all the laird saw was sunny skies overhead. And he was fairly certain that the enemy would send an assassin to kill him long before the spring thaw. Which would, amongst other things, leave Heather utterly undefended. “They’ll accept a surrender of the clan if I’m dead—which I think everyone in the castle knows—so where do you put my chances?”
Ian’s jaw clenched. “I’m not a betting man.”
But if he were, he’d bet against the laird’s survival. John understood. He wouldn’t put a wager on his own chances either. The laird cleared his throat. “You say the villagers asked Heather for help, as if they thought she had some sway with me?”
“They know she does. Truthfully, we all do. It’s not a good thing to have your men wondering if your head is on the siege or filled with love poetry to be murmured between her creamy thighs.”
The laird stiffened, swallowing down his anger. Ian had no right to be speaking of Heather’s creamy thighs. Except, of course, that Ian had seen them. He’d seen them because the laird had insisted Ian witness her in her shame. And there was little doubt that Ian lusted for her ever since.
Ian wanted her.
Ian wanted his Heather.
But did Ian want her enough to protect her if the worst came to pass?
The forbidden question leaped up from the boggy thought
s at the back of the laird’s mind, where it had been thrashing for quite some time. What would happen if the laird should die, either in battle, or through treachery? In surrender, Clan Macrae would turn to Ian for leadership. John had always known that. Always counted on it. It’s why he tolerated from his kinsman what he’d tolerate from no one else. Without sons of his own, Ian was the closest thing the laird had to an heir. And John believed, truly believed, that he could trust the clan to Ian should it come to it.
But what of Heather and her little sister, for that matter? If Heather survived the laird’s downfall, would Ian provide for her? Would he take her for his own?
Oh, that thought twisted in John’s gut like a poisoned knife.
But it was a far better thought than the alternative.
He should hope that Ian would take Heather as his own. He should want that for her. He should go to his grave glad for her to be safe and protected and with Ian, a man who was more honorable than not. A man of letters. A man of good birth. If the laird should die, there was no better man for her than Ian Macrae.
But would Ian have her?
The laird’s kinsman wasn’t sentimental. There’d be no reason for Ian to protect Heather against the enemy unless he could somehow be made to be sentimental about her…
It hurt John to think what he must do to make that happen. It burned a searing hole possessive rage in him. But he must accept that pain of jealousy as his due. It was no less than he deserved. After all, he had created this mess.
He would bloody well clean it up…
“The lass is to me no more than she should be,” the laird said, forcing himself to meet his kinsman’s gaze. “Believe it. Come to my chambers this evening and I will prove it to you.”
~~~
HEATHER
That night, I poured over a book of old Norse runes, fascinated by the drawings. I didn’t think this jar could possibly be as old as the Vikings who pillaged here long ago—if it were, what an archaic treasure it would be! More likely it was some relic of more recent witchery, and given the accusations I’d heard against my sister for her knowledge of herbs, I might be wise to smash it upon the ground or throw it into the loch.
“What’s in the jar?” the laird asked, startling me.
I could never seem to accustom myself to how silently he moved for such a big man. Nor could I really accustom myself to being discovered in his rooms without feeling the need to apologize, as if I didn’t belong there. “I—I’m not certain,” I replied. “Some sort of powder. Nothing for you to trouble yourself with.”
Because he did look troubled. There was a new wrinkle in his brow, a weary slump to his broad shoulders. He was a man carrying much weight, and so I rose to help him out of his cloak. Shrugging out of it, he eyed me hungrily. But instead of devouring me in a kiss, he sat at his chess board and beckoned to me with one hand. “Come. Play with me.”
He’d taught me this game. I was getting better at it. But I should think he’d had enough of thinking and strategizing for one day. Still, I did as I was bid and opened the game by moving my chessmen in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
“Och! Bold move, lass. Mayhaps even a little reckless.”
“As I was today?” I asked, sheepishly.
“You ought to be disciplined for that,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the board. “Go fetch the paddle.”
