Page 7 of Only a Highlander Will Do

“What were you thinking, attacking the MacDonalds behind my back? I asked you to let me give diplomacy a chance . . .” His words faded away as his gaze moved to each of the four bound guardsmen, and then to the woman in Tormod’s arms. “What have you done?”

“Not attacked the MacDonalds,” Tormod replied as he slid from his horse with the girl against his chest. She felt soft and warm and helpless. He swallowed thickly. He would not look down at her. He did not want to feel anything towards her, not any of the things Graeme wanted him to feel—pity or desire. The girl was here only until he could figure out what to do with her.

Tormod focused instead on his brother. “I won’t lie to you. We left with the intention of attacking the MacDonalds and burning Monkstadt to the ground. But then we came across her.”

Alastair frowned. “Who is she?”

Tormod hesitated. His gaze shifted from Alastair to Graeme, then against his better judgement to the woman in his arms. Her eyes were closed, but he remembered the fire that had shone in their depths as she confronted him in the forest. First impressions implied she was strong and brave and determined. He valued those attributes far more than her comely features. Even so, his gaze lingered over her face. Her skin was kissed by the sun, bringing out a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her jaw was delicate, yet proud, her lips lush and full. Her green eyes were wide and assessing as she stared back at him. He startled. “You’re awake?”

“Please, set me down.” Her voice was soft. “I promise not to run away this time.”

He carefully set her on her feet, then with a possessive hand placed on the small of her back, he turned back to his brother. “Alastair, meet Fiona Fraser. My bride.”

Tormod refused to look at the woman’s face as he said the two words that would bind them together, forever. He’d been a warrior all his life. A wedding to his enemy’s bride was a good strategy. It was a way to keep the peace Alastair wanted, while poking a hot sword straight into their enemy’s heart—if any MacDonald actually had a heart, that was.

Chapter Three

At the MacLeod’s words, Fiona’s breath caught. “Nay! Take me as your prisoner. Kill me if you must, but do not force me to marry against my will.”

Tormod’s features clouded with anger. “Are you so in love with Alex MacDonald that you would prefer death?”

“I’ve never met the man,” she blurted out before catching herself. She pressed her lips together.

“You’ve never met your bridegroom?” The MacLeod raised a brow. “Interesting.”

The man who had emerged from the castle and closely resembled the man beside her frowned. “Would someone please explain what is happening here?” he asked.

“This woman and her guards are now our prisoners. She was on her way to Monkstadt when we happened upon her and her escort.” His gaze flicked from her to the other men. “I’ve decided that instead of seeking retribution through war, I would listen to Graeme for a change and marry the bride of my enemy instead.”

“You’re playing with fire, Tormod.”

Tormod, the second of the three MacLeod triplets. Did that make the other man beside her Alastair, the laird?

The door to the castle opened again. This time two females emerged—a blonde and a brunette. “Good heavens, Alastair, Tormod. Why didn’t you tell us that you had a guest?” The shorter of the two females came forward and took Fiona by the hands. “Welcome to Dunvegan. I am Gwendolyn, and this is my sister-in-law, Rowena.” With a frown at the man she had called Alastair, she said, “I am sure our guest would like to rest after her journey.”

Uncertain what to say or how to respond, Fiona simply nodded.

With a glance at the other dark-haired man who had been with Tormod when he’d captured her, Gwendolyn asked, “Could you have someone bring her satchel upstairs once the horses are settled?” Then, without waiting for a reply, Gwendolyn ushered Fiona up the stairs and into the castle, with Rowena trailing behind them.

“You’ll have to forgive my husband and his brother. There was an attack on the village a few days ago and they are still trying to sort it all out.” Gwendolyn led her up a set of stairs and then to the right. After a brief journey they entered a drawing room. Gwendolyn waved Fiona into one of four chairs near the hearth while the other two women sat across from her.

“We were just about to have tea when we heard the men talking below.” The younger of the two women reached for the teapot and poured out a cup of tea, passing it to Fiona.

She accepted the delicate teacup and saucer, and simply held it in her hands. Fiona was grateful for their intervention, removing her from the discussion about her marital situation belowstairs, but felt a similar sense of unease as the two women stared at her with interest.

Voice gentle, Gwendolyn asked, “How did you come to be in Tormod and Graeme’s company?”

Realising she wasn’t breathing, Fiona inhaled slowly. She ignored the question and asked, “The MacDonalds, were they the ones who attacked the village?”

Her expression suddenly sad, Gwendolyn nodded. “We took the surviving villagers into the castle, so you are not the only new person here.”

“Survivors?” Fiona asked as her stomach twisted.

Rowena handed Gwendolyn a cup of tea. “There were some. However, twenty-one people were killed.”

Fiona dropped her gaze to the amber-coloured liquid in her teacup. Suddenly everything that had happened this morning made sense—Tormod’s anger with the MacDonalds, and his eagerness to marry her. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with revenge. She should have expected nothing less; after all both he and her one-time bridegroom were nothing more than Highland barbarians. Or were they? She’d heard stories about the MacDonalds and the MacLeods from her servants over the past few years that described the MacDonalds as a brutal and dangerous clan. She had always assumed the MacLeods to be the same. So far, at least these women were proving quite the opposite.

“Did I hear Tormod say you were to be his bride?” Gwendolyn asked over the rim of her teacup.