Claiming His Highland Bride. Terri Brisbin
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‘All will be well, Alan. I think things will work out, somehow, regardless of what Gilbert Cameron wants or how he acts.’
‘Brave words, Cousin. Especially from someone who knows him as you do.’
They’d both grown up with the current clan chief, though Arabella’s father had occupied the high chair before their uncle. In spite of the difference in their ages and their gender, each had witnessed many examples of Gilbert’s true nature and temper.
‘Well, I was not suggesting you marry the widowed Saraid,’ she said then. ‘I thought you might be interested in the company of a young woman.’ She let out a breath then and shrugged, sadness and something uncomfortably close to pity entering her pale blue eyes then. ‘I want you to find the happiness I have, Alan.’
It was not pity there, he realised. Arabella was more like an older sister to him than a cousin. She was having a care for him and it felt strange to him because no one else did. Here they sat, two Camerons amongst the Mackintoshes, welcomed more by this clan than their own.
‘Is aught wrong, love?’ Brodie leaned over and spoke to his wife. ‘The two of you have the makings of some tragic story in your expressions.’ Brodie’s astute dark gaze met his own then. ‘Something I should know?’
‘Nay, Brodie,’ he said, shaking his head. There was nothing about which he could or would speak to The Mackintosh, so he smiled. ‘Arabella is simply...’ He paused, searching for the best word to use, but Brodie beat him to it.
‘Meddling? Overstepping? Controlling?’ Brodie asked, moving his intent gaze now to his wife, who blinked several times at his words. Then, the chieftain lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, softening what could have been insulting words. ‘Bella likes everyone’s lives to be orderly and has a way of trying to make that happen.’
‘Brodie, I would never...’ she began.
‘Never meddle, my love?’ Brodie kissed her hand again. ‘Overstep?’ Another kiss, this one on the inside of his wife’s wrist. ‘Control?’ Alan watched, waiting as his cousin clearly did to see where the next kiss would be. Instead, Brodie laughed loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. ‘Give over, Bella. You know you do all those things. It is part of you and you could not stop even if you tried.’
Arabella opened her mouth to argue with her husband and found herself being kissed, thoroughly by the looks of it, into silence. Alan sat back, giving them some bit of privacy and looked out at those yet eating and drinking in the hall of The Mackintosh.
With unerring and yet alarming accuracy, his gaze found that of the widow Saraid MacPherson. This time, she was staring back at him. Catching her, he nodded and smiled. Mayhap he should meet the widowed Saraid MacPherson after all?
‘If you will excuse me,’ Alan said as he rose from his chair. When Brodie waved him off without breaking the kiss he was giving Arabella, Alan considered himself free to leave.
He fought off the growing anticipation within him, now that he’d made the decision to meet the woman. He forced his feet to slow and greeted several people along the way to where she sat. When he realised he was counting the number of tables between him and her, he stopped and turned away. Reaching for an empty cup, he filled it from a pitcher and then drank half of it down in the first swallow.
Bloody hell, but what was happening to him?
He was not some untested, untried youth. He’d experienced first love and lost it and survived. He’d bedded a number of women. And yet, the way his gut threatened to heave, one would think he was a virgin. Alan forced a laugh at someone’s words and tried not to glance over at her.
Three damned tables away, she spoke with Clara.
Standing next to each other, heads together, speaking together, they were a contrast in appearance. Clara stood tall and lush with dark auburn hair and a full smile that she used often and well while the cousin was shorter and dark-haired. As he’d watched, she smiled little and when she did, those seemed shy and tentative. But then one was kin and known to all in the hall and the other was a visitor and a stranger, which could account for the reticence in her demeanour.
Somehow, as he’d been watching and comparing the two women, his feet had led him right to them. Lucky for him, Clara’s husband took note of him before they did.
‘Alan,’ James said, nodding to him. ‘You’re back from your travels then?’ The blacksmith had been a friend for years now. They had both been close in age when they’d met during the struggle between the Mackintosh cousins that ended with Brodie’s ascension to the clan’s high chair.
‘Aye,’ Alan said, accepting more ale from the pitcher that James lifted off the table. ‘Done travelling for a while, I suspect.’
‘Well, you ken I would gladly accept your help, if you are looking for something to fill your time,’ James offered. Alan glanced over his shoulder as the man spoke. ‘She is rather fetching, is she not?’
Alan could have ignored the question or tried to laugh it off. He decided to do neither.
‘Aye.’
It was the only word he could utter as he took his first close look at the widow Saraid MacPherson. If he had thought her unremarkable, he’d been very, very wrong indeed. Alan blamed the distance that had separated them for the mistake. Now, as he walked with James towards Clara and her cousin, Alan could see that her eyes were an interesting blend of blue and gold.
Interesting? Hell, they were beautiful. As was the rest of her, from her heart-shaped face with full lips that begged to be kissed to the creamy skin of her graceful neck that led to... Hell! He was damned now! Worse, he’d been so entranced by the sight of her that James had continued speaking while he gawped and Alan had no idea what the man had said.
Yet Saraid had not even looked at him. Alan gathered his scattered wits and tried to follow James’s words. The knowing sparkle in his friend’s eyes told him that James was enjoying his discomfort. He would pay for that.
‘My wife’s cousin is visiting to help with the bairns,’ James said, kicking Alan’s foot to gain his attentions. ‘Saraid, may I make you known to Lady Arabella’s cousin, Alan?’
‘My lord,’ she said quietly, lowering her head respectfully and dipping into a curtsy.
‘Nay, Mistress MacPherson, not a laird nor nobleman,’ he said, shaking his head and watching a lovely blush creep up into her cheeks. ‘Just Alan Cameron.’
While James laughed at his words and Clara smiled, the woman had a different reaction. The pink in her cheeks left abruptly and was replaced by a pallor that reminded him of...fear. What had caused that?
* * *
Sorcha fought the urge to clutch at Clara for support when the man spoke his name. She’d noticed him when he’d entered the hall and walked to the raised table in the front, joining those closest to the chieftain. What woman alive and breathing would not notice a man like him? Tall and muscular with his long, dark-brown hair gathered back behind his head, he strode through the place with the lethal grace of a natural predator and the confidence of one who knew his place and liked it.
She must have been too obvious in staring, for he’d looked in her direction several times through the meal. Sorcha tried to concentrate on Clara’s words and introductions and to play along with the story of her that they’d created to cover her identity. In changing the detail of her betrothed dying to her husband dying, it had made some men here a bit bolder in their introductions. As she watched his approach, she wondered if it made a difference to him.
She’d seen men like this in her father’s hall and noticed the way women watched them with hunger in their gazes. These same men never slept alone or wanted for companionship. As he came closer, it did not escape her that many women in this hall did not miss a move he made.
Now, as he stood before her, his blue gaze almost glowing as he stared at her, her mouth went dry, her palms sweaty and