Page 9 of Only a Highlander Will Do

Tormod wanted to fight, and stopping British expansion into the new world was as good an excuse as any. He’d spent those years mostly holed up on one West Indies island or another, cut off from everything that meant anything to him. His entire life had become a series of attacks and retreats, of putting his life on the line. The funds he earned helped him to amass a small fortune, but waking each day only to face his own possible demise, left him feeling empty and alone. That was when he’d searched for Orrick and had persuaded him to return home, also.

His memories of the past were cut short as Tormod sensed a presence behind him. His instincts flared as he turned, sword drawn, towards the doorway to the rooftop, only to find Graeme standing there. “What do you want?” he asked as he sheathed his sword. “I could have cut your head off.”

“I am far too fond of my head to allow you to do that.” Graeme smiled as he strode forward. “Besides, those days are far behind you.”

“Are they? I went on the hunt again today,” Tormod said.

“But you came back not with heads, but a beautiful treasure.”

Tormod turned back towards the loch. “If you’re looking for pleasant company, then you picked the wrong place with the wrong person this afternoon.”

“You are better company than you think.” Graeme came to stand beside Tormod.

Tormod frowned. “I don’t pretend to be anything but the rogue that I am.”

“You’re not a rogue,” Graeme said, then amended, “well, at least not all the time. And when you are, it’s because you’re in pain. You have been since you returned to Dunvegan, perhaps even longer. A beast with a thorn in his paw that snarls and growls when he’s forced to grind the thorn deeper.”

Tormod had to admit he felt like a wounded beast now. “I’m a man with a responsibility to my people, yet I have no home and no real authority. Not really. Dunvegan is Alastair’s.”

Graeme’s gaze narrowed on Tormod’s face. “Then build a place of your own that will give you your freedom for once in your life.”

“I have all the freedom I need.”

“You could have so much more if only you would allow yourself to. There is a young woman downstairs who is in need of a protector. You claimed to want to marry her. When will that happen? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“She doesn’t want to marry me,” Tormod said in a tired voice. “You saw the horror on her face at the very mention of wedding me.”

“You are one of the fiercest warriors I know, and yet this slip of a woman and her look of fear, not horror, has delivered you a wound worse than any you’ve suffered before.”

“I don’t know her. How can she wound me?”

Graeme smiled. “But she has.”

Tormod’s muscles went rigid. “So I’m wounded. Leave me in peace.”

“The girl might not have been enthusiastic about your proposal, because it was hardly that. You can and should do better. Marriage to you will be far better for her than marrying Alex MacDonald. Alex is not a gentle soul. His first bride only lasted two months before she was discovered dead. Is that what you want for Fiona?”

Tormod had a sudden memory of a pair of huge green eyes filled with fire and challenge. He forced the image out of his mind.

“At least go talk with her, and perhaps this time, instead of demanding she marry you, woo her instead.”

“Woo her?” Though he had been a warrior most of his life, he’d been around his fair share of women. When he wanted companionship, he never seemed to be without an eager partner.

“The kind of woman who would make you a good partner doesn’t like to be told what she is supposed to do. Women like to have choices.”

“I’m supposed to give her the choice to die at Alex’s hand or to survive as my wife?” Tormod asked incredulously.

“It’s not as simple as that, and you know it,” Graeme replied.

Tormod released a harsh breath. “How do I get Fiona to come around to my way of thinking?”

Graeme offered him an easy smile. “That’s easy. Show her who you are. Not the warrior who conquers all, but the gentleman inside.”

Tormod raked his fingers through his hair. “How can I show her who I am by tomorrow morning?”

“Perhaps you should think about doing things more traditionally so that she has time to come around to your way of thinking.” Graeme shrugged. “Posting banns might help.”

“And give the MacDonalds three weeks of warning about my intentions? If that is how we are to move forward, I might as well go to war against them tonight.”