Gleanngalla Castle

Magnus MacVane, laird of Gleanngalla, sat by the blazing fire with his two guests. One had been there a fortnight—an old friend, if not a dear one. The other had arrived that very afternoon, riding in out of a gathering snowstorm. They’d both stay for Christmas, of course, having no wives or bairns of their own to go home to, and that was just as well, Magnus thought, since his own wife was eight months dead, and he was alone himself.

And bored. Not that he missed Euna. Marrying her had brought him a fortune, but he hadn’t loved her, and it was a relief to Magnus when a sudden fever claimed her. Others missed her, he supposed, including his sister Catriona—and there was yet another irritating female.

Magnus looked at his guests, wondered what amusement they could find. Charlie MacKay, laird of Dunlinton, was his dead wife’s brother. Charlie was a quick with a joke or a drink, but that wasn’t why Magnus had invited him—summoned him, actually—to Gleanngalla. Charlie owed Magnus money and favors, and he meant to collect one or possibly both before Charlie left again. He’d force MacKay to wed Catriona, make him take her off his hands and out of his hair. But at the moment, Charlie was eying a pretty maidservant, clearly imagining a far more pleasant bedmate than sharp-tongued Catriona.

Magnus’s second guest sat soberly nursing the same cup of ale he’d been sipping for the past hour.

So far, Laird Hugh MacAulay had kept his reasons for coming to Gleanngalla to himself, and he kept his eyes off the maidservants—and the silver, for that matter. Magnus knew MacAulay had recently inherited the lairdship of Abercorry, and Magnus didn’t envy him that. Abercorry was a poor holding, in disarray after having three lairds in as many years. There were rumors of debts and bad blood between the MacAulays and their neighbors. Hugh had buried his uncle about the same time Magnus was burying his wife, just last spring. And if MacAulay was here instead of there, it must mean he wanted something from Magnus, but as yet he hadn’t said what. Perhaps he just wanted to escape from Abercorry.

Magnus glanced up at the windows as another blast of wind rattled the expensive, wee, diamond-shaped panes. “The snow is getting thicker by the minute,” he remarked, leaning across the table to refill MacAulay’s cup in hopes of loosening his tongue. “It’s good to be inside, eh, MacAulay? Where it’s warm?”

“’Twould be warmer with a few lasses to cuddle,” Charlie quipped before MacAulay could reply, speaking loudly enough for the pretty maidservant to hear. The lass blushed and fled.

“There’s Catriona,” Magnus said, hoping the servant had gone to fetch another pitcher of ale.

Charlie shuddered. “I meant friendly lasses, not your shrew of a sister. She’d freeze the balls off a—”

Magnus held up his hand and sent him a pointed glare. “My sister needs a husband.”

Charlie swallowed hard and reached for the pitcher himself, frowning when he discovered it was empty. He looked up hopefully as the door opened, but it was just a clansman. He was so covered with snow Magnus wasn’t sure which man it was. Charlie gaped at him. “God’s balls, lad, you’re more snow than human. Cold out, is it?”

The man nodded, but turned to speak to Magnus. “There’s a party at the gate asking for shelter from the storm, Laird. Will ye welcome them?”

“Did they bring any women with them?” Charlie asked.

“It’s hard to say under all the fur and snow, but I believe there are two,” the clansman said. “Shall I ask someone to summon mistress Catriona to see them in the solar?”

Charlie jumped to his feet. “You do and I’ll snap your frozen fingers off. Bring ‘em here and let’s have a look at them. Magnus can bid them welcome and give them a dram or two before exposing them to the shock of Catriona.”

Magnus nodded, and the clansman retreated, leaving a puddle of melting snow on the stone floor. MacAulay was already on his feet, straightening his plaid, smoothing his wind-chased hair politely.

“Steady, MacAulay—ye don’t even know if they’re pretty yet,” Charlie quipped. “It could be Old Cailleach, the winter hag, for all we know.”

The door opened and a troop of snow-covered men entered the room, big and broad, and made broader still by the furs and plaids they wore and the thick crust of snow covering those. There was no way to identify their plaids. One of the men carried a woman in his arms. MacAulay hurried forward with a chair, and the man lowered his burden into it while another man moved toward Magnus.

“I’m Keith MacLeod of the MacLeods of Glen Iolair. I’d like to ask for shelter for my mistress and her seanmhair, the lady of Seannbrae.”

“And our escort,” the woman in the chair said, folding back the plaid that covered hair that was nearly as white as the snow itself. Her blue eyes scanned the room, alighting on each of the three lairds, one after the other, like restless birds.

“Iolair?” Magnus said. His gaze fell on the second woman, who was still wrapped in her plaid. All Magnus could see was her eyes.It was enough to recognize her, to know her. As he once had, in the biblical sense . . .

A grin split Magnus’s face. “Meggie MacLeod. After so many years—is it ye, Meggie?”

She pinned him with a sharp violet-blue gaze. She pushed back her arisaid with long slender fingers, and Magnus’s breath caught in his throat. Maggie MacLeod had grown from a pretty girl to a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She raked him briefly—too briefly—with a glance as icy as the weather, then looked away.

“Good evening, Magnus. May I present my grandmother, Maighread MacLennan of Seannbrae?” Her voice had a smoky quality, breathless and sweet, like warmed whisky on a cold night. It shot straight to his groin, made him remember a summer night eight years in the past, and a hayloft . . . did she remember too?

She was looking at anything but him—at Charlie McKay, at MacAulay, at the walls. When she looked back at him at last, he sent her a knowing grin and watched her blush, even as her chin rose. Haughty wee MacLeod—he’d known her when she wasn’t so haughty, when she was spread beneath him like a banquet and he was—

“Perhaps your lady wife might send a maid to see to my grandmother?”

“She’s dead.”

Surprise flashed in her eyes for a moment. She looked around the room again, no doubt noting the absence of women in his hall now. Then her gaze lowered, a sweep of golden lashes over rosy cheeks. Her lush lips puckered slightly, and he suppressed the urge to groan aloud for sheer lust.

“My sister is here. Upstairs. Somewhere.” He stepped forward. He wanted to touch Meggie MacLeod, unwrap her, taste her . . . He’d once charmed this lass at a clan gathering, seduced her, and forgotten her—until now. Meggie, delectable Meggie was here, in his hall, and that offered intriguing possibilities. As he recalled, he’d been on his way to his own wedding at the time of their dalliance, though Meggie hadn’t known that wee detail. She’d been a perfect conquest, a green lass ready for seduction, ripe for flattery, male attention, and first love. He’d given her all that. He’d wanted the challenge of coaxing one of the Fearsome MacLeod’s virginal daughters to give herself to him. Some men liked the challenge of stalking dangerous game, but Magnus preferred women. He could sense when a lass could be convinced to break the rules, play with him . . . Meggie had been challenging indeed, and he’d needed all his considerable skills to win her. He may have made promises he had no intention of keeping, but who remembered what was said so long ago? He hadn’t meant a single sweet word he’d whispered in Meggie’s pretty ear. Had she believed him? He almost chuckled out loud. He’d been betrothed to Euna—the ink was still wet on the contract—and his bride and her rich MacKay tocher were waiting for him . . .

Charming Meggie had never been more than a wee game to him.

And now? He calculated the odds of seducing her again, having her in his bed this time, instead of a hayloft. And with Euna dead, he needed another rich bride. Meggie’s tocher would be generous, as ample and mouthwatering as the woman herself.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Perhaps you’ll come and warm yourself by the fire?” he suggested, dropping his tone to a seductive growl.

But before Meggie could reply, Charlie MacKay descended on her, bowing and kissing her hand, grinning like a fool and babbling, and she was smiling at Charlie—the smile she should have given him. Magnus felt jealousy rise. He’d forgotten his other guests entirely, and he frowned at Charlie’s interruption.

MacAulay waited until Meggie looked at him. “MacAulay of Abercorry,” he said by way of introduction. Magnus watched Meggie’s eyes take in MacAulay’s lean height, from his deerskin boots to his light brown curls. And MacAulay’s gray eyes traveled over her, too, damn him, showing the first real spark interest in anything since his arrival. Meggie blushed, ever so slightly, and bit her lower lip. The fact that they spoke not another word made their meeting somehow more intimate than Charlie’s babbled flattery had been.

She moved to take off her arisaid, and Charlie moved to assist her. Under her plaid she wore a blue gown, made of fine wool. Her lush figure took Magnus’s breath away. She’d filled out, reached the full promise she’d held at eighteen. Magnus stared at her breasts, full and high, and his jaw dropped. He’d oust the servant girl from his bed this very night and make room for Meggie . . .

But she didn’t spare him another glance. She crossed to her grandmother and helped the clansman take the old woman’s cloak and furs, peeling Maighread MacLennan until she was naught but a wee brown nut of a woman.

“Ale or whisky?” Magnus asked Meggie.

“Water, if you please,” she said tartly. Water? It dawned on him that perhaps she was a wee bit unhappy with him, even after all these years, for rising from her bed—her father’s hayloft—to marry Euna. Still, water? Not for the fiery Meggie MacLeod he remembered.

“A bath,” he murmured, imagining Meggie with that kind of water, as naked as the last time he’d seen her. She sent him a glare of warning. Now what did she have to be angry about, really? She wasn’t the first lass to succumb to his charming smile, his handsome face, and she wouldn’t be the last. Could he help the fact that he was so appealing to women? He grinned and winked, but she looked away.

“Have ye had a long trip today, Mistress MacLeod?” Charlie asked.

“We’ve come from Seannbrae. We’re on our way to Glen Iolair for the Yule,” Meggie replied. She glanced at her grandmother with a sideways sweep of her eyes. “We—I—thought the weather might hold a few more days.”

“Glad it didn’t,” Charlie quipped, standing so close to Meggie he was staring straight down her bodice. She looked at him sharply, and MacKay had the grace to blush and raise his eyes. “I mean for our sakes of course, mistress—we three lairds—since the storm has worked in our favor and brought us the pleasure of your company.” He deftly changed the subject. “Tell me, how is your fearsome father? I haven’t seen him for a number of years.”

“My father is well,” she said.

“And I understand one of your sisters recently married a cousin of mine,” Charlie said. “Laird Alexander Munro of Culmore?”

Meggie nodded. “Aye, Cait and Alex wed at midsummer.”

“Cait is expecting a child,” Maighread MacLennan chirped, looking pointedly at Meggie.

“And are ye married, Meggie?” Magnus asked.

She ignored him, looked at MacAulay instead. “Laird MacAulay—I believe I’ve heard my father speak of the laird of Abercorry as an old friend.”

“That would likely be my Uncle Eanraig. He died two years ago—or perhaps my Uncle Angus, who died last spring. I have been laird only since then.”

“I see,” Meggie murmured, her eyes on MacAulay still. Magnus wanted to stick a dirk in the man’s guts. He hadn’t realized the man was handsome until Meggie pointed it out with a sweeping glance and a soft blush.

Maighread chuckled. “So that’s all of us caught up on who’s dead and buried, inherited and married. What shall we speak of next?”

“Dinner,” Charlie said with a grin, appreciating the old woman’s wit. “MacAulay brought a brace of partridges with him when he arrived a few hours ago. Someone’s cooking them I expect. Hopefully not Catriona.”

Magnus glanced at his steward, who was hovering in the doorway, waiting to be noticed. “I haven’t located Mistress Catriona, Laird, but I’ve made chambers ready, and there’s time for your guests to refresh themselves before the meal.”

Meggie shot to her feet. “We don’t wish to be any trouble,” she told the steward. “I’ll be glad to share a bed with my grandmother.”

“Och, but we’ve plenty of beds—” Magnus insisted, but Meggie’s glance turned to acid.

“I would not inconvenience you for all the world, Laird MacVane. My grandmother might need something in the night. I would prefer to be with her.”

He came closer, leaned over her, breathed her in. “Nervous, Meggie?” he whispered, giving her elbow a squeeze. “Afraid ye—we—won’t be able to resist?”

Most women would giggle and submit to him, but Meggie narrowed her eyes like a cat warning away a dog. “If you’ll recall, all my father’s daughters carry dirks. And even if I didn’t—surely I have no reason to fear anything at all under your roof.”

He grinned, let his gaze slide over her delectable figure. “Fear? Not from me. As laird, I can promise ye nothing but pleasure under my roof. No straw this time, no hay, just warm, soft furs . . .” he purred, but she turned away without batting a lash and smiled at the steward. Even he blushed at Meggie’s beauty.

“If ye’ll follow me?” he said. A MacLennan lifted Maighread into his arms again, and Meggie followed. A MacVane clansmen led his MacLeod and MacLennan counterparts away to the men’s quarters.

Magnus watched Meggie leave the room, fighting the urge to follow her. But there was plenty of time for that.

He rocked on the balls of his feet, clasped his hands behind his back and chuckled as the door closed behind her. Meggie MacLeod was here, in his castle, after all these years. And she hadn’t forgotten their last meeting. The hectic color in her cheeks and the way her pulse pounded at her throat were proof of that. It would be an easy conquest this time, a simple thing, like tumbling into soft hay with her warm, willing body under his own. And if she wanted to play games, make him wait? He’d still win.

He always won.