For the Highlander's Pleasure Read Free

subsided and, if anything, had only increased. “We must send away the jongleurs and the minstrel she hired. Perhaps they will remain with us a few days until he is in better spirits for entertainment. For tonight, you might play a tune on your lute. He always enjoys your songs.”
“Ach,” Inna grumbled, snuggling the gray kitten closer as she stepped over a missing stair on their way down to the hall. “You mean my music puts him quickly to sleep.”
“Then I should say the rest of us enjoy the effect your ballads have upon him.” Violet squared her shoulders as they neared the entrance to the great hall.
And stopped short as the sound of booming male laughter emanated from the echoing space, bouncing through the rafters. It was not a sound Violet had anticipated on a day when her father had been left to sup alone at his feast of gathering.
Unless… Dread pooled in her belly.
Hurrying, Violet stepped over the threshold in time to see her da clap a hand upon the shoulder of the largest man she had ever met. The Highlander she had sent away at the riverbank.
She stifled a gasp.
The sight of the warrior lord had an immediate and fierce effect upon her. Tall and broad, the great Scots chieftain loomed above her father’s height. His dull chain mail gleamed bronze in the firelight, dusty from his time on the road. Still, the fine cloth of his garments beneath the mail was apparent. The sleeves of his tunic had been embroidered heavily by a skilled needle, the patterns of exotic beasts and interwoven swords apparent even though the color of the thread was no different than the pale shade of the tunic itself. And though the lower half of the warrior’s body was hidden by a trestle table, Violet spied the hilt of a heavy, Frankish sword at his side, a weapon that would have been prized by any knight.
Even his aspect appeared fashioned for war. His broad forehead and straight nose formed a strong expression emulated by the shape of most men’s helms. Perhaps his face had been used as a guide for the metalworker’s hands. A few days’ growth of beard hid the specifics of his jawline, but she suspected that, too, was squared and unrelenting. His hair, at least, gave him some appearance of humanity. The dark locks fell to his shoulders without the knotty, matted quality that marked most men’s hair.
Aye, he was an impressive-looking man if only for the fierceness of him. But even that did not explain the sudden blaze of heat in Violet’s skin, a distinct warming of her flesh from the tingle under her neck cloth to the spreading fire along her breasts and over her belly. Her discomfort was sharp and immediate, leaving her confused and distracted when she needed to focus on this new development.
“This is my daughter, Violet.” Her father waved her closer. “Daughter, you will want to welcome Finn Mac Néill, our most honored guest.”
The Highlander turned to her, fixing her with his icy blue stare. Impossibly, her skin heated further. She felt the flush creep slowly from her neck up to her jaw and over her cheeks. She could not think about where else the heat crawled, for it was most unseemly.
Silently she cursed Morag’s herbs and herself for requesting them in the first place. She walked toward the men standing by the hearth behind the dais. Inna followed by a few paces.
“He is a Highlander,” Violet observed foolishly, her manners vanishing under duress. “That is to say, you are most welcome, sir.” She curtsied low to atone for her poor greeting. “We are simply unaccustomed to seeing many Highlanders in Caladan.”
Finn’s expression remained placid. “Perhaps that is because the natives refuse to provide foreigners with directions to your keep.”
Maybe the warrior was not so placid as he appeared. Clearly he had not appreciated her attempt to misguide him. For him to have found Caladan so soon, he must have learned very quickly after their encounter that she had not spoken truthfully. Before her da